


Éricas en Rouge

by TwilightKnight17



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, M/M, Moulin Rouge AU, not tagging all the characters, the rest of the Kuro cast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:56:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 83,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightKnight17/pseuds/TwilightKnight17
Summary: A poor songwriter meets a high-class courtesan in a flamboyant club in France. A story about love that conquers all obstacles, though maybe not quite in the way you remember...Brush up on your tango, and step into the world of the Moulin Rouge~





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted to my Tumblr over the course of a year, this is my only complete longfic for Kuro, as of now. I'm just kind of surprised that no one (that I know of) got to the idea before me. XD
> 
> I will fully admit to stretching Will's believable characterization a bit, but it works in context, I think.
> 
> Expect updates every other day or so as I go back and tweak and edit a bit. Special thanks to my girlfriend, a Goddess of Editing, who made sure that I didn't veer completely off track along the way. Enjoy!

The morning was relatively cool, the light of the sun bright but ineffective against the chill of fall, as the world continued preparing to curl up and wait for spring to arrive again. Trees were just beginning to lose that powerful green that summer inspired, and the nights were beginning to grow longer and darker. And Eric Slingby would gladly stay home and burrow away from the coming winter months as well, but groceries were a necessity, and they didn’t purchase themselves.

Only the earliest of the early risers were out at the small farmer’s market in town, and Eric was able to make his way through the stands without any problems, stopping at his usual place and picking out freshly ground flour and several kinds of vegetables that didn’t grow in the garden at home. Maybe he would bake bread later. The smell of warm bread baking might make the house seem cozier, and hold off winter for just a little longer.

The townspeople who ran the stands offered greetings as he passed, and he returned them in kind. When he’d first moved here, nearly nine months ago, he had hardly spoken to anyone. He hadn’t wanted to meet new people. More than a few trust issues had taken root, after what had happened. He had been betrayed, heartbroken, and almost murdered, and even if some of that had been just simple misunderstanding, it had been far too soon to even consider letting anyone else close. His little home was all he needed, and the townsfolk had seemed to understand that. They didn't pry into his life. They left him alone to work through the lingering trauma at his own pace.

But gradually that faded. The hurt grew less raw with time, and Eric learned that not everywhere was as full of conniving and sin as the underworld he’d spent three months living in. He began to open up to his neighbors, and now the little town was as much a home as he could have hoped for.

“Good morning, Eric!”

“G’mornin’.” He set his collection of fruits and vegetables on the table along with the bag of flour, and dug in his pocket for his wallet. “Jus’ this t’day.”

The woman who ran the stand totaled everything up for him, and he passed over the money. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

“O’ course. Jus’ tryin’ to get back in th’ mood t’ write.”

“You’ve still got writer’s block? I hope it goes away soon. It must be a shame to want to get the words down and not know how.” 

“I think after las’ night I mighta found the motivation again.” He gathered up his purchases into a large bag, which he slung over his shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll see ya ‘round.”

“Good luck with your writing, Eric!”

When he got back to the little house a mile or two out from the village, he led the horse to the stable, then just left the wagon out front as he usually did while he carried the groceries inside and put them away. He was certain no one would take it. They were too far from town for that.

As he put the food away, he eyed the empty bottle of absinthe that was sitting on the counter. After last night, he could have probably slept until midday and beyond, but he’d woken up early from a nightmare and hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. They didn’t happen as frequently anymore, but some nights his subconscious still managed to dredge up the unpleasant memories of his time at the Moulin Rouge. The club was the best and worst thing to ever happen to him, after all.

No… _Alan_ was the best and worst thing to ever happen to him. There was a definite distinction to be made there.

The nightmare he’d woken from seemed to have prematurely eliminated the hangover he likely deserved after the overindulgence of absinthe, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if the bottle had been watered down. He’d gotten it terribly cheap, though the quality wasn’t a concern. It was more of a token of nostalgia than anything, and watered down or not, it had tasted just the same as it did that crisp October day almost exactly a year ago, when he’d first arrived at the Moulin Rouge with no idea what he was getting himself into.

With little else to do, he walked over to the desk in the corner of the main room where the typewriter was waiting and sat down, feeding in a sheet of paper and sliding the carriage into position with a _click._ He’d been meaning to sit down and just write it all out for so long, and it had gotten away from him. It was easier to try to suppress the memories than to delve into the details needed to properly describe what had happened. But in light of his most recent nightmare of what could have been, maybe now was the time to finally type it all out, and maybe it would finally feel like closure to the story. Their story.

_The Moulin Rouge._

Seeing the words on the page was like a release, each _clack_ of the typewriter keys dispelling a bit of the tension wound up in his mind, and Eric took a deep breath before continuing.

_A bordello, a dance hall, a palace of nighttime pleasures. A theatre, in more ways than one. A kingdom ruled over by one Grell Roxanne Sutcliffe, the most daring woman I have ever known. It was a place that I spent far too much of my time, but I cannot complain. After all, it was there that I met the love of my life._

Eric stared at the page, all of the memories rushing back as if he had just been there. Like he could look out the window and see the narrow streets of Montmartre and the bright lights of the Moulin Rouge. Like Alan would be there, darting across the street for one of their clandestine meetings in Eric's tiny flat. Like he had never left all of that behind. “But…” he spoke out loud, measuring the words, wondering how to conclude this opening to their tale. “But… _th’ one I love is…_ ”


	2. Life in Montmartre

The area of Paris known as Montmartre was not nearly as frightening as people in England made it out to be. He'd been told so many things about the little French neighborhood, most of them secondhand and apparently _very_ exaggerated.

_"A den of sin and villainy!"_

_"Nothing but layabouts, vagabonds, and whores!"_

And his personal favorite: _"You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a can-can dancer!"_

Honestly, it was as if people thought he had no idea what he was getting into. But Eric Slingby wanted to be a songwriter, and Montmartre was a Bohemian, modern center of the artistic world. He had purchased himself a tiny, two-room flat high above the main street, and was prepared to begin the life of an artist. And yeah, the area was full of clubs, opium dens, and bordellos, but people in this part of the city tended to be poorer, and that was where things like that sprang up, wasn't it?

With his pair of bags in hand, he trudged up the four flights of stairs to his new abode, fumbling the key out of his pocket and letting himself into the modest flat. It was kind of a sad-looking place, with sparse wooden furniture and threadbare curtains. The mattress looked old and worn, and the tiny kitchenette could do with a good cleaning. But it was the first home he'd ever had that was just his, and that was worth whatever cleaning and straightening the place needed.

Eric set his bags on the floor, sitting down on the bed and bouncing a bit. Not too shabby. Worn though it might look, it actually seemed fairly comfortable. And it wasn't squeaky and annoying, which was definitely a plus. He might not be intending to 'waste his life' with a can-can dancer, but a bit of company now and then wouldn't be amiss. Speaking of which... He got up, walking over to look out the window at the club across the street. During the day, the Moulin Rouge was nothing spectacular. Its most notable feature was the windmill that adorned the gate. But Eric had heard about the club's reputation, and he knew that during the nights, everything lit up in a million colored lights, and it became the grandest place in this part of Paris.

...that was part of why this flat had been so cheap. No one wanted to live across from such blinding lights. But Eric could sleep through anything, including a building that outright glowed.

He poked his head into the washroom, checking to make sure all the faucets worked. The landlord had said they were fine, but Eric knew better than to take his word for it. The water was clean, and everything seemed to be in order. That done, he went to the kitchenette, dug an old shirt out of his bags to use as a rag, and began cleaning up the cabinets and the small stove. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust, but that mopped up easily enough, and soon that corner of the room looked clean and tidy. He unpacked the few dishes and pans he'd brought along and put them away, then then sighed at the empty pantry. Food. He'd have to go buy food before dinnertime rolled around, or he would have nothing to eat.

First things first, though: get the rest of his things unpacked. If he didn't do it now, they'd just lay around for the next few months and never get put away. He set about wiping the dust out of the dresser drawers, glancing up every once in a while at the mysterious thumps coming from the flat above him. The people on the top floor seemed lively, at least. Hopefully he had good neighbors.

Clothes were folded into some semblance of order and tossed into the drawers, and finally, his typewriter was set reverently on the little desk by the window. He could look out at the lights and the flow of people, and hopefully find all the inspiration he needed. One last look around to make sure there was nothing else immediate that he could tend to, and then Eric snatched up his wallet and headed back down the stairs and out into the crisp autumn air. Time to find a market or grocer and stock up for the next week or so. It would be the bare necessities until he found a job, but with a prominent club right across the street, maybe he'd have better luck than he'd anticipated.

* * *

It was a good afternoon in the bright whirlwind of color and sound that called itself the Moulin Rouge. Things were lively for late afternoon, with many clients on the floor chatting with the employees. Afternoons were reserved for more... _innocent_ meetings. Tea, snacks, the occasional walk around the club. Anything more _intimate_ was limited to nighttime appointments, after the show of the evening.

Grell Roxanne Sutcliffe looked down upon her empire with bright green eyes from one of the side balconies, pleased with what she saw. So many handsome men frequenting her club; it was a sight any lady would _die_ for~ There was a partner here for anyone looking, from the lowliest street-sweeper to the highest-ranking noble looking to be discreet. But like with any commodity, wealth begat better quality, and only the richest of customers could afford a night with the Moulin Rouge's best courtesans. Though many lusted after the Star Sapphire, few could handle the price, and fewer still could truly say he had enjoyed their company.

Tonight, however, was an important night for the Moulin Rouge. Their shows were primarily dance, and while the crowd didn't complain, Grell felt it was time to spice them up with something new. They had hired a theatre troupe that was living in Montmartre to write a play, a musical, with lots of song and dance but also a compelling story. She hoped that this would usher in new opportunities for her darling employees to shine, as actors and actresses as well as simply dancers and courtesans. But such a venture took money, and that was why tonight was so critical.

"Fretting about tonight, m'dear? Ihihihi~"

Grell turned to look at the newcomer, a man with long silver hair that everyone simply called "Undertaker". He was the resident doctor of the Moulin Rouge, and while his fascination with dead bodies was a bit creepy sometimes, he was good at his job. It helped that he had at least one assistant to keep him in check. "I'm not fretting. Everything is going to go _beautifully~_ And I hear that the Duke is such a handsome man; it will be _lovely_ to get to know him~"

Undertaker grinned widely. "Having a patron to support us would go a long way, but there's no guarantee he'll approve of our little club."

"Alan can convince him. No one can say no to that boy when he smiles. He'll have the Duke melting in no time~" Grell purred. "Though, if the Duke is as good-looking as the rumors make him out to be, Alan-darling might have to share..." She daintily crossed her ankles, the slinky red dress she was wearing accenting her long legs perfectly. Even if there was no one to see but Undertaker, a lady always had to look her best. "I'm more concerned about the theatre troupe, to be honest. Really, there are some rather handsome men there as well, but some of them just seem like...brats."

"We'll just have to see. Won't it be hilarious if those 'brats' turn out to be the most talented of the bunch?" Undertaker giggled. As always, he was thoroughly amused by the redhead. It was part of why he worked at the Moulin Rouge in the first place. He could have a position in a regular clinic or hospital, but the club was simply more fun. "Soooo~ Where is our precious Star? Isn't he usually on the floor?"

Grell waved a hand lazily. "He had a special appointment this afternoon. But that should be about over..." She leaned over the railing, trailing a cursory eye over the busy floor below until she spotted someone out of place. A young man with a violet ponytail and loose, comfortable clothes was flirting with a few men and women at a table near the edge of the floor, and Grell simply stared at him until he felt her gaze and looked up. She beckoned him over, and he excused himself with a bow before coming over and bouncing up the stairs two at a time until he reached where his boss and Undertaker waited.

"What's going on, Grell?"

"Asmodeus, what are you doing down there?" Grell asked, raising an eyebrow in mock annoyance. He was one of the very few people who could get away with being so informal to her.

The man ran a hand through his hair, smiling sheepishly. "Alan's at his appointment, so I thought I'd take some time to play until it was over." Casual appearance or not, the slender man was one of the higher-priced courtesans at the Moulin Rouge, and he took his opportunities to flirt and gain new clients where he could. Though, he was lucky, as Grell did pay him a small salary for the secondary job he spent his time on.

“You’re his bodyguard. Shouldn't you already be up there _guarding_ him, dear?” And that salary would be gone in a flash if she didn't think he was taking it seriously enough.

“Nah, this guy’s a regular. Battenhall might be a rich git, but he wouldn’t hurt Alan.”

“Well, go on anyway. Make sure he’s prepared to meet with the Duke tonight. Vicomte Battenhall’s appointment is likely over, anyway. He’s not getting extra time, no matter how much he might want it~” It was already unusual enough that he'd gotten an appointment in the afternoon, but when one was as rich as some nobles were, they could pay enough to make up for an occasional breach of the rules. And Vicomte Battenhall had felt a bit slighted when he couldn't get his usual weekly appointment due to Alan's meeting with the Duke, so Grell, always wanting to keep such a high-paying customer happy, had agreed to do him a favor.

Just this once, of course.

Asmodeus saluted and flitted away, back down the stairs and through the crowd towards the doors to the backstage areas. Grell watched him go with a fond smile; she liked all her employees - mostly - but Alan and Asmodeus were by far her favorites. When the young man disappeared out of sight, she turned back to Undertaker. "Shall we go make sure everything is prepared for tonight?"

The silver-haired doctor grinned, offering her a hand and helping her to her feet. "Tonight will be rather spectacular, don't you think?"

"Oh, I hope so~!" Grell gushed. "The Duke must think that everything is perfect~" She did a little twirl on one stiletto-heeled foot, and then took Undertaker's arm. "Escort a lady backstage?"

"Of course, m'dear." The two of them headed backstage to make final plans for the evening, certain that everything was going to turn out _fabulously._

* * *

Asmodeus tripped his way down the stairs behind the scenes on light feet, dodging around a cart of maids coming around a narrow corner and continuing his way out to the main courtyard of the club. Standing in the center was a massive elephant replica done in an Indian-looking style. It was covered in fake jewels and feathers and draping, gauzy fabric, and personally the courtesan and part-time bodyguard found it rather tacky. But clients had their preferences, and there was a room decorated in rich fabrics up there that some chose to rent out. That was where Alan was now, with one of his more extravagant clients. Not many people could afford the exorbitant extra fees to book a private appointment in the afternoon, but Vicomte Thomas Battenhall was not 'many people'. The bronze-haired playboy chose a different room every time, exploring every theme the Moulin Rouge had to offer. 

Though, while his taste in decor seemed to change like the weather, he always chose Alan as his companion. Asmodeus had been suspicious of the man's intentions for a long time, but he was certain now that Vicomte Battenhall meant no physical harm to his friend. Emotional harm, that was another matter, but Alan was strong enough to take anything anyone could dish out.

He let himself into the narrow door at the base of one of the elephant's back legs, heading up the narrow spiral staircase to the landing. It was the work of a moment to check his pocketwatch and determine that yes, Vicomte Battenhall's time was just about up. Asmodeus knocked on the door, just two sharp raps, and called loudly, "Two minutes!" before going back over to lounge against the wall beside the top of the stairs.

There were muffled voices from inside, and the skinny man waited patiently as, presumably, clothes were gathered and put back in proper order. Thomas Battenhall stepped out onto the landing, closing the door carefully behind him, and as he straightened his jacket sharp hazel-green eyes landed on the waiting bodyguard.

"Afternoon, sir," Asmodeus said, sweeping an exaggerated bow. "I hope your appointment was...pleasant?"

"As always," Thomas replied, raising an eyebrow. "Alan is lovely company. Far superior to any other." His tone, full of smoothness and a hint of seduction, practically dared the other man to comment.

Charmer. Playboy. It was a desperate struggle not to giggle at the aristocrat. Two could play Thomas's game. Asmodeus winked at him, twirling the end of his ponytail around one finger and asking in a blatantly flirty tone, "When are you going to give the rest of us a turn, rich boy? We might get jealous, since you pay all your attention to Alan... Hard to tell if your dish is superior if it's the only one you've sampled~"

Thomas chuckled. "Alan is by no means the only dish I have sampled; however, he is the most fun to toy with. He gets rather flustered sometimes." He looked Asmodeus over, making no effort to hide the way his eyes lingered on the slender courtesan's bare midriff. "When Alan ceases to amuse me, perhaps I'll move on to someone new." He reached up to brush a bit of Asmodeus's bangs aside, blatantly disregarding any notion of personal space, and then pulled away and headed down the stairs.

For a few seconds after Thomas disappeared, Asmodeus stayed put. But then he smothered a laugh, brushing his hair back over his shoulder and turning back to the door to the bedroom. He knocked again, calling, "Alan, I'm coming in," before pushing open the decorative oak-and-iron door and stepping into the room.

Alan was lying on his back, a corner of the sheet pulled modestly across his lap, as he hadn't bothered to get dressed. It was inevitable, being that they worked in what was essentially a high-class brothel, that they'd seen each other naked, but Alan was surprisingly modest when he wasn't working. Asmodeus, however, had very little modesty, and bounced over to flop down on the bed beside him, unconcerned by the other’s state of undress. "You all right?"

The brunet rolled over to look at him, resting his head on his bent arm. "Of course. I'm always all right."

"No, you're not," the violet-haired courtesan countered. "Some days you're not. But let's focus on right now. How was your hour with the _Vicomte_ ~?" He poked Alan on the arm repeatedly, grinning.

Alan swatted at the jabbing finger. "Stoppit, 'Deus... Thomas's visit went the same as it always does. He tries to get me flustered."

"Flustered, hm?" Asmodeus considered this for a moment. "And does he succeed?"

"He likes to think he does, but no. To be genuinely flustered I'd have to actually like him. He's not much better than Oliver, though he thinks he is."

“Battenhall and Morrison are still trying so hard to win your love~” Asmodeus teased. "It's almost sad to watch."

“They’re wasting their time,” Alan huffed.

“Exactly! And that's good! That means I get you all to myself!” The skinny courtesan flung an arm over Alan, giggling as he snuggled him. 

“Gerroff, ‘Deus. I don’t want to fall in love. I want to get out of here.” Alan squirmed halfheartedly, sighing. As glamorous as life in the Moulin Rouge seemed at times, Alan had never pictured his life playing out with him in the role of a prostitute. It was a life he'd chosen out of necessity, and while he might have turned out to be good at his role, it didn't mean he wanted to stay forever. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough money to leave yet, so he was forced to continue working and saving as much as he could. One day... One day he'd get away from this place. He'd have his own house, his own beautiful garden, and he'd never have to answer to anyone ever again. "And if playing my part for the Duke will help with that..."

Asmodeus looked sheepish. "Yeah, about that... Grell says she understands your thing about not sleeping with clients on the first visit, but is sort of hoping you'll make an exception for the Duke." He really hated playing messenger. Just because he and Alan were close friends didn't mean he wanted to be the one to deliver bad news.

The brunet stared at him for a moment, then frowned. "No, I can't promise that, 'Deus. You know I can't." There was a reason he and the other were so close. Asmodeus had saved his life a few months after he'd first started working in the Moulin Rouge. A client had attacked him when he had refused a particular sex act, which the courtesans were allowed to do if they felt too uncomfortable with a client's request. If Asmodeus hadn't been passing by, the man would likely have killed him. After that, Alan had refused to sleep with anyone until a few appointments in, so he had time to gauge what they were like. And Grell had officially designated Asmodeus as Alan's bodyguard, since he'd proven himself protective of the smaller courtesan.

"Just...don't stress about it," Asmodeus said, ruffling his hair. "Focus on the performance in a bit, and then just go with what you're comfortable with. That's the important part. Don't do anything you're not okay with."

Alan hesitated, then reached up and tucked his hand into Asmodeus's. "...thanks, 'Deus."

They laid there like that for a while longer, just drinking in the quiet and the opportunity to be away from the rest of the brothel, before Asmodeus forced himself to sit up. "You should wash up and get something to eat before the performance, love."

Beginning to gather his clothes, Alan nodded. "I'll take a bath and meet you in the kitchens. We can run through the steps one last time." But first, he needed to wash off Thomas's cologne. It didn't smell _bad_ , persay, but Alan could feel the scent clinging to him, and he just felt that he needed to scrub it off. He waved at Asmodeus as the other headed back out to the main part of the club, and walked into the adjoining bathroom to start the water. 

It was going to be a long, long night.

* * *

Food was a good thing to have, even if it was just the basics, and Eric whistled as he made his way up the street to his building, arms laden with shopping bags. Flour, cuts of beef and chicken, a few kinds of fresh vegetables... And maybe a pastry or three because who was he to turn down French pastry in Paris? Call it a reward for actually not being lazy and getting all of his stuff unpacked.

When he reached the front door of the building, he was busy trying to figure out how to get the key to his flat out of his pocket without dropping any of the bags, so he didn't see the man coming out of the door until he ran straight into him. Eric stumbled back a step, managing not to drop all of his bags, and glanced up.

"Sorry, wasn' watchin' where I was goin'..." But he raised an eyebrow in surprise at the other man, a sharply-dressed gentleman in a black tailcoat, with raven hair and piercing, mahogany-red eyes, who was glaring at him with an exasperated look.

Montmartre was far from being a 'good' part of the city. There was a reason it was filled with bohemians and brothels and shabby little apartments. The only reason someone would be wearing a suit in this area would mean that they were fairly wealthy, right? Probably here to visit a brothel. And considering that this man looked well-kept, his suit finely tailored, all of his buttons polished to a silver sheen, he was probably an aristocrat of some sort. Either way, probably someone with enough money to squash a penniless songwriter that had happened to annoy him, if he so fancied.

Shit. He'd offended someone important, hadn't he? It had barely been two hours since he’d arrived. What fucking brilliant luck he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Battenhall belongs to FlecksofPoppy, and appears with permission.


	3. Entering the Underworld

"Do watch where you're going next time." 

Though there was disdain in the man's voice, he didn't seem particularly hostile, and Eric nodded, just a quick bob of his head.

"Yep, definitely'll be more careful nex' time. Sorry f'r any inconvenience." The blond stepped around the man, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary in his presence. But he was almost immediately forced to sidestep as another person practically barreled out the door, missing Eric by inches. He looked younger, practically a teenager, with blond hair and a black dye job that darkened the underneath layers of his hair.

"'Bastian, did you find the-" But then the kid stopped, looking at Eric curiously. "Hey! Haven't seen you around here before."

Eric shifted his bags of groceries to one arm so that he could offer a hand. "Jus' moved in this afternoon. Eric Slingby, at'cher service."

"Ohhhh, you moved into the flat on the fourth floor, didn't you?" The excitable newcomer shook Eric's hand enthusiastically. "I'm Ronald Knox! This ball of sunshine," and the sarcasm practically dripped from his words, "is Sebastian Michaelis. We live up on the fifth floor, right above you!"

Ah. So these people were the source of all the mysterious thumping and clattering from earlier. It took what Ronald had said a moment to sink in, and then Eric blinked at 'Sebastian', confused, "Wait... So yer not a noble, then?" No reason to panic, then, but that didn't explain why he was wandering around a poorer district in a tailcoat.

The raven-haired man and the younger teen exchanged a glance, and then Ronald laughed. "No, no, it's a costume! We're part of a theatre troupe! Sebastian's been out working!"

"Unfortunately, I seem to have dropped a note I was carrying. I assume it fell when I was retrieving my key," Sebastian said.

Eric looked around at the cobblestone street. "I don' see... Oh, is that is?" He pointed at a square of paper currently blowing away across the street, and Sebastian darted after it, snatching it up with practiced elegance.

"It's from Asmodeus," he said to Ronald as he returned to them. "The Duke is going to be there this evening, so it would be ideal if we had something to show. We might get the chance to perform something for him."

Ronald's eyes widened. It was almost comical, the look of shock on his face. " _Tonight?_ We've got to rehearse, then!" He turned to Eric, beaming, and said, "You should come up and meet the others! You can watch the rehearsal and give us some critique. We probably need it. We're supposed to be writing a show for the Moulin Rouge."

A real theatre troupe, writing a show for the most famous club in the city? Eric couldn't believe it. Of all the people to practically slam face-first into, he'd managed to hit the people most likely to be able to help him get a job. And honestly, even if he wasn't aiming for the job, the stupid puppy-eyes that Ronald was giving him might have convinced him to at least go critique their work. As it stood, though, now he just had to hope that they didn't already have a songwriter. This could be a bloody brilliant opportunity...if they thought he was good enough. "Sure. Lemme jus' go put all this stuff away, an' I'll be right up." He hurried upstairs ahead of them, putting away the groceries as quickly as he could. Vegetables went in the icebox, as did the meat, pastries were wrapped and put in the cabinet, and Eric dusted off his hands, left the empty shopping bags on the counter, and ventured upstairs.

A knock at the door of the fifth-floor flat earned a slightly muffled, "Come in!", and Eric stepped inside, looking around curiously. Half the living room was decorated to look like a makeshift theatre, with wooden pallets forming a haphazard stage, and old bedsheets serving as curtains. Another dark-haired man was seated on the couch, a boy who looked even younger than Ronald was occupying an armchair, and Sebastian had finally changed out of that tailcoat, thank goodness.

"Eric, this is the other half of our troupe," Ronald explained, hopping up on the stage. "The one who looks like Sebastian's brother is Claude Faustus." And oh, did both men look scandalized by being described like that! "And the kid over there is Ciel Phantomhive."

The slate-haired boy shot Ronald a murderous glare. "I am not a child, Ronald. I'm seventeen. That's only two years younger than you."

"Whatever." Ronald shrugged. "Anyway, guys, this is Eric Slingby. He lives downstairs a floor, and I thought he could watch and give us some critique. The Duke's going to be there tonight, and we need to be ready!"

Eric took a seat on the other end of the couch, facing the stage. "So, uh, what's this play about, exactly?"

"It's set at Christmas!"

"Even though it's set to open on New Year's..." Claude deadpanned.

Ronald stuck his tongue out at the other. "That's still close enough to do a Christmas play!"

Eric decided not to comment, and after a bit of bickering, they finally got a scene together. Despite it supposedly being an early scene, he really couldn't tell what was supposed to be happening. Something about an angel, maybe? An angel looking for something at Christmas? He honestly didn't know what the hell was going on. But apparently there was some conflict over Ronald's writing, because he and Claude ended up picking at each other over some of the lyrics.

"You're doing it wrong!"

"I am not. Your lyrics just don't make any sense rhythmically."

"Of course they do," Ronald pouted. "How hard can this be? They match the music!" He began to sing along, unaccompanied for the moment since Sebastian was busy eyeing him from the piano. _"To bring something back, this angel was told, that only the hands of the divine could perceive~"_

"Ronald, that's awful," Ciel said flatly.

"But it matches the music!"

"That doesn't mean it's good."

Eric had been listening intently, and finally spoke up, "What about-"

"-this angel was told, that the hands of-"

"No, that still sounds wrong."

"You could say it like-" Eric tried again, but neither of them heard him.

"They're my lyrics!" Ronald was objecting loudly. He began rambling something about Claude being just the dance expert, so how would he know anything about song lyrics? Claude, naturally, got rather offended by this, and the argument dissolved into them sniping petty insults at each other, with Ciel occasionally managing to get a word in.

"You're a perpetually hung-over party brat who couldn't string lyrics together coherently if you tried!"

"You're an obnoxious diva who dances like a tap-dancing tarantula!"

"Both of you are utter children, and that's saying something, since you're both older than me!"

"Guys?" Eric questioned. Sebastian was simply watching the other three bicker from the piano, an amused little smirk on his face. Eric continued to attempt to interject, but the insults continued, and finally he couldn't take it any longer. Without making a conscious decision, he got up from the couch, singing loudly and clearly, _"To bring something back, this angel was told, that no one could touch, but angels could hold."_

Everyone immediately quieted, staring at him, and then he realized that he'd abruptly made himself into the center of attention. _Welp. No goin' back now. Le's show these nutters what I've got._ He grinned wryly before continuing, _"So on that night, when the sky had cleared...Among all the stars, an angel appeared!"_

Ronald started clapping first, followed by the other three a second later. Ciel looked Eric over appraisingly, and asked, "So, are you a songwriter, then?"

"Sorta. I mean, I want t'be. 'm no' a proper one by any means." Eric waved his hands absently, looking awkward now that he wasn't singing.

"You both could work together, Ronald's dialogue and your lyrics," the youngest suggested, though there was an element of authority in his tone that suggested that that was what Ciel wanted to happen.

"I couldn' jus'..."

"No, that's a good idea!" Ronald chimed in. "We really need this show to go well. If it does, we'll be hired as permanent staff for the Moulin! We'd get paid good money to write shows for them. I'm more of a novelist, though, mate, and having your songwriting talent would really help."

It seemed like the ideal situation. Eric's goal was to become a songwriter, and if working with these guys was going to be his best chance, why the hell not? But Claude looked skeptical, and pointed out flatly, "Ms. Sutcliffe hired us, and agreed to take on four of us and pay us a small fee for this show, to determine if we can stay on a permanent basis. There's no guarantee she'll want to pay an extra person, especially one she hasn't approved of."

The four of them seemed to think for a moment, and then Ronald asked brightly, "What about Alan? We could ask Alan."

"Alan?" Eric questioned.

"Alan Humphries. The Star Sapphire of the Moulin Rouge. If he were to approve of you, Grell would yield to his opinion," Sebastian explained. He got up from the piano and walked into the small kitchen area, gathering up the tea supplies from the stove and bringing them over to set on the coffee table in front of Ciel. "It's no certainty, but the worst that can happen is that they say no." He poured the tea, setting out five cups. "We'll have to find you something appropriate to wear." He looked Eric up and down critically, taking in the battered trousers and worn work shirt he had on. He was covered in dust from walking through the streets with his bags, and his hair, while in a strange hairstyle to begin with, was even messier than usual. "You're certainly a bit below the standards of the Moulin's usual clientele."

"Oi!" Eric objected, offended, but he couldn't say much more than that. It wasn't like he had suits overflowing his closet.

“Sebastian, lend him one of your suits,” Ronald said excitedly, ignoring the older blond's outburst.

“I think he’s a bit more broad-shouldered than myself.”

“Claude, then!" Ronald insisted, his enthusiasm undaunted. After a moment, Claude nodded curtly, and got up to look through the small closet. A plan appeared to be coming together, and Eric, though nervous about having to impress the star of the Moulin Rouge, was excited. Hopefully this Alan was a reasonable guy and would give him a shot. Maybe he could agree to work without pay, just for this first show, so they could see what he was capable of.

His savings would last that long.

He hoped they would, at least.

* * *

Dressed in the finest suit the troupe could muster up, Eric let himself be herded across the street to the Moulin Rouge, where the lights sparkled enticingly and a steady stream of customers were filling the walkway. Ronald steered him along, Claude and Sebastian right at their heels, with Ciel holding onto Sebastian's arm so he didn't get swept up in the crowd. Eric felt so unbelievably out of place now that he was actually here. What the hell was he doing? This was a ridiculous plan. He'd never written a song as a professional in his life, and he was supposed to go in and impress both the owner and the star performer of the most prominent club in the city? Fucking hell. He was going to embarrass himself, he just knew it.

But Ronald kept hold of him, as if making sure he wouldn't run away, and they made their way up to the large, red double doors of the club. There was a bit of an issue with Ciel, who had to explain who he was three times, until someone finally recognized him as part of the theatre troupe and let him in. Privately, Eric didn't blame the bouncers, as the squirt looked about fourteen instead of his actual seventeen, but he kept that to himself.

Once they'd finally gotten in, Eric barely registered that they were still moving, too caught up in the glitz and glamour of both the decorations and the other patrons. Everyone was dressed in their best, it seemed, and he realized he would have been even more out of place in his work shirt and plain trousers. Thank goodness Claude's suit had mostly fit, even if it was a bit snug in the shoulders. But it was easy to tell that many extremely wealthy people visited the Moulin Rouge. Men in perfectly pressed suits and women in clearly expensive dresses filled the room, and despite the club being in a poorer area of Paris, there were bright lights and rich fabrics decorating the walls and a polished wooden dance floor that looked very well taken care of. Small staircases with wrought iron railings led up to seating areas around the perimeter of the room, and the tables were already filling with patrons.

"Ollie's expecting us! I called him earlier while we were getting dressed," Ronald called over the music to Claude, Sebastian, and Ciel as they entered the main room. "He's holding us a table off on the right side of the floor. Go on and find him; I'll take Eric to talk to Grell." Sebastian nodded, helping Ciel through the extremely close crowd, and Ronald explained to Eric, "I've got a friend who works here as a waiter. His name's Oliver Vance. He and Sebastian's friend Asmodeus helped us land this job."

"Always pays t' know someone, I guess," Eric replied. That was what was going to get him a place here, he hoped. "So this 'Grell'...What's she like?"

"Oh, man, Miss Grell is great," Ronald said happily. "She's been really helpful to talk to since we started working on the show, explaining what sort of technical stuff we can do. Did you know they've got flight harnesses we can use?!"

Eric was pretty sure this place was hiding lots of things, considering how much stuff was in just the main room alone, but it wasn't really his place to comment on that. "So she's nice, then? No' a bad person t'work for?"

For a moment, Ronald looked confused, as if he wasn't sure how to answer. "Well, I mean, she's terrifying sometimes. Even if she's in a good mood. And she really likes the color red..."

"Tha's why it's th' Moulin _Rouge_ , I guess."

"Yeah. Anyway, she'll like you. You seem like her type."

Eric blinked. "Her _type?_ " But Ronald was already heading up the stairs to a balcony all by itself beside the stage, waving to the bouncer that guarded it and beckoning Eric along. "It's okay, he's with me!" he called, and the bouncer stopped frowning disapprovingly at Eric and let him by. The songwriter cautiously followed up the stairs, and it took conscious effort to keep his mouth from dropping open when he reached the top of the stairs.

Grell Sutcliffe was a _knockout._ Her hair was the most vibrant red Eric had ever seen, done in a complicated updo, and she wore a low-cut, strapless red dress with bright gold accents that reached down to mid-shin. Her bright green eyes lit up when she saw Ronald, and she got up from her seat with a smile. "Good evening, Ronnie~ You look rather sharp tonight, don't you, pup?" She looked over his suit critically and nodded. "Very nice~ How do I look?" She did a quick turn, and her skirts flared up with the spin near-scandalously. Although, for the owner of a bordello, it was rather tame, all things considered.

"Stunning, Miss Grell," Ronald replied honestly.

She tittered at him appreciatively. "You flatterer~" Then her gaze drifted over to Eric. "Oh, and you've brought me a present~"

"Wha'?" Eric managed, uncertain how to respond as she walked over, looking him up and down with a vaguely predatory smile. Not that he wasn't used to being flirted with, but Grell was something else entirely.

_Were her teeth pointy?_

"This is Eric Slingby!" Ronald introduced him, which was good because he was a bit distracted puzzling over Grell's teeth. "We're wanting to take him on as a songwriter. He's quite good, from what we've heard so far."

Grell raised an eyebrow. "And what if I wasn't planning on hiring five people, pup?"

Eric offered his most charming smile. "I jus' got into town, ma'am, an' I could really use a job. If ya jus' give me a chance, it'd mean th' world." That smile had worked on all kinds of people before now, and he could only hope that it would work on Grell as well. He really wanted this job.

"I'm not sure... You're certainly handsome, but how do I know you have what it takes?"

Ronald jumped to the rescue. "Let him show off for Alan. You've said Alan's really picky about people. If he can impress Alan, let him join."

Grell seemed to be considering it. Eric held his breath, keeping the smile in place as best he could. This was it. The redheaded beauty glanced up at the large decorative clock mounted on one of the walls and pressed a hand to her mouth. "Drat! I'm running late!" She gave it a moment more thought and then sighed, waving her hand at them and saying, "Yes, by all means, speak with Alan. He's got an appointment after the show this evening, but there will be time after that." She stepped around them, heels clicking on the shiny floor, and added, as if an afterthought, "And Ronnie, don't think I won't find out if you try to fib to me about his answer." Flashing a sharp-toothed grin at them, Grell disappeared down the stairs and off towards one of the clusters of private tables near the side wall.

"Well," Eric said, torn between feeling intimidated and infatuated, "she's somethin', isn' she?" Beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

"Told you," Ronald replied. "Terrifying. But awesome." He waved Eric to follow him again, starting down the stairs. "Come on, let's go find the others and tell them the good news! You get to talk to Alan!"

"Hooray." But honestly, if this Alan was as intimidating as Grell...he was probably going to be out on his ass faster than he could blink. 

* * *

Grell made her way smoothly across the floor after leaving Eric and Ronald behind. The tall, broad-shouldered man was definitely handsome, but Ronald was right. Alan would be the real test. If he could impress her extremely picky little Sapphire, he might be worth hiring after all.

The crowd parted willingly before the Queen of the Moulin Rouge, and men doffed their hats and bowed as she passed. Everyone knew who she was, a stunning flash of scarlet amidst black suits and other, plainer dresses. She dressed as finely as her performers and in colors just as bright, loving the attention that being so well-known brought. A few people tried to stop her with questions, or to chat, but she had an important meeting to attend to. The personal little booth closest to the stage was off-limits to all but the most well-paying clientele and it was here that she found the man she was looking for. Dark-hair, finely pressed suit... Everything about him screamed wealth and poise. She dipped into a curtsy, fluttering her eyelashes at the handsome, sharp-eyed man. "Your Grace~ Grell Sutcliffe, at your service~"

Duke William T. Spears was known in Paris for being a ruthless businessman and a shrewd negotiator. He owned a massive company that dealt in many different facets of office supplies, from furniture all the way down to the basic necessities of ink and paper. It was common knowledge that his fortune was vast, and that was why it was so lovely that he was considering investing in the Moulin Rouge.

The dark-haired man regarded her evenly. "Ms. Sutcliffe. Good evening." He gestured to another man, standing just behind him with a severe gaze and greying hair. "This is my assistant, Lawrence Anderson. I trust all of the arrangements are in order?"

Grell nodded. "You will see Alan after the show, my dear Duke. He's quite looking forward to being able to speak with you~" She flounced over to take the chair beside him, leaning close. "Although, someone as handsome as you is welcome to spend some time with me as well..."

"Lawrence tells me the dancers here are quite talented," William said, ignoring her blatant attempts at flirting.

"Oh, they are~ Simply magnificent performers all around. That's why I want so badly to be able to give them the chance to show off other talents." And it was true. Being able to consider the Moulin a proper theatre would be a fantastic opportunity for the employees. Not everyone who worked in the Moulin had chosen to be a courtesan, or a maid, or any of the number of odd jobs around the club. Some didn't have a choice. If they grew into a real theatre, conditions would improve, everyone could be paid more, and some might even be able to venture into high society as true actors or actresses. "You'll be able to judge for yourself tonight. Alan's performance is going to be spectacular~"

The Duke raised an eyebrow. "I should hope so. I expect the highest quality of performance if I am going to invest in this establishment."

Invest! Oh, what a lovely word~ Grell batted her eyes coyly at him, and said smoothly, "You won't be disappointed, I promise~" She got up, brushing daring fingers against his cheek, and continued, "I must go prepare for the start of the show. We'll speak again afterwards, darling~"

William looked mildly irritated by the unsolicited touch, but only nodded curtly. "Yes. As you say."

The lady in red descended the stairs and made her way backstage, where the dancers were assembling and Othello, Undertaker's chemistry-enthused assistant, was readying the fog effects. They all stopped to look at her as she appeared, and she grinned, sharp teeth flashing. "Ready, my dears? Time to impress the Duke~!" She looked them all over critically, taking in the men in their midriff-baring shirts and ladies in flowing, brightly colored skirts and lacy underthings. Her eyes finally landed on Alan and Asmodeus in their matching silver waistcoats. "Oh, you two look dashing! Now, don't be afraid to show off a little. We want the best show possible!"

Everyone nodded, and Grell turned to look at the curtains. "Well then...Let's goooo~"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ronald's (and Eric's) song is "An Angel Came Down" by the Trans-Siberian Orchestra.


	4. Rhythm of the Night

It wasn't easy to make their way back across the main room due to the number of people now filling the area around the dance floor and stage, but Ronald had at least a little bit of experience in dealing with the crowds, so he towed Eric off to their table along the right-side wall, waving frantically when he spotted the rest of their group. A young man about Ronald's age with brown hair with bleached tips was waiting with Sebastian, Claude, and Ciel. They had even gone ahead and ordered drinks for the table, and passed both Eric and Ronald a beer.

"Thanks for holding a spot for us, Ollie," Ronald said, shaking the brown-haired man's hand. "It's packed tonight. We'd have never gotten a good spot." He flopped into a chair beside Claude, taking a sip of his beer.

"No problem, Ronald. Az said that you'd need a space. Something about meeting with Alan?" Ollie shrugged. "Didn't ask too many questions." It wasn't a waiter's place to ask much beyond 'can I get you anything?', after all.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. "He hates when people call him that." Asmodeus complained about the waitstaff mucking up his nickname on at least a weekly basis. Personally, Sebastian was positive they were doing it on purpose at this point, especially a couple of the more mischievous ones.

"I know, I know." Ollie waved him off. "He'll get over it. He always does. Anyway, I better get back before Harold gets annoyed. Lots of clients tonight." He straightened the towel over his arm and headed off down the row of tables, taking drink orders as he went.

Eric looked out over the floor. He still felt wrong, dressed up in this suit among all these clearly-rich people. Grell had seemed all right with him, but he still had to pass the scrutiny of Alan Humphries, and who knew how bloody difficult that would be? He downed half the beer in a few quick gulps, setting the bottle back on the table with a _clunk._

"Nervous?" Ciel asked, a tiny smirk on his face. Eric side-eyed him, irritated with his tone. Just because _some people_ were used to the frenetic atmosphere of the club didn't give the squirt the right to sound so taunting.

"I'll be fine. No problem."

"The show's starting!" Ronald said loudly. They all turned their attention back to the stage at the front of the room, where Grell had appeared in all of her resplendent red, bursting dramatically through the curtain to a loud flourish of music and a burst of colored fog. 

Effortlessly commanding everyone's attention, she stepped up to the front of the stage with a graceful gait. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Moulin Rouge! Tonight's show is guaranteed to amaze and _excite_ you~" And oh, did the crowd cheer for that! Lips painted in red formed a devilish smile as Grell called out over the mass of people, "Darlings, give a warm welcome to the dancers of the Moulin Rouge, the Diamond Dogs~!"

And before Eric could blink, everything became a whirl of color and music. He could barely believe his eyes as dancers seemed to fill the room in seconds, both male and female. The men wore tight-fitting shirts and colorful trousers that clung to their hips, showing off flat stomachs and abs, while the women wore low-cut dresses with voluminous skirts that were frequently spun up or lifted high enough to show undergarments and stockings. And fuck, how was he supposed to look away from that? Though, that's what they were here for, he supposed, and the crowd was definitely into it, cheering and reaching towards the dancers closest to them, stretching out their fingers to brush billowing rainbows just out of reach.

Ronald grabbed his arm, pointing into the crowd. "There's 'Deus, Sebastian's friend! The one right near the middle of the stage!"

It was obvious that Ronald was pointing at the violet-haired man in the silver waistcoat, who was dancing effortlessly through the steps of the routine with a huge, genuine grin on his face. Eric raised an eyebrow at the guy, wondering how someone who looked so unabashedly happy could manage to be friends with Sebastian. But, whatever. To each their own.

"And that one, do you see the blond kid in the purple shorts? That's Claude's little boyfriend!"

"Ronald. Kindly die."

"Oh, come on, it's true!"

Eric tuned them out, too focused on the swirling colors and provocative dancing. Hips swaying, thrusting, skirts purposely held up to put lacy undergarments on view as the dancers spun and teased, stepping almost close enough to touch and then away again. Pairs dancing close, almost grinding, in a mimicry of acts they would gladly do for their clients. And both men and women alike cheered and reached out, hoping for just a brush, a ghost of a touch from the wild underworld creatures that displayed themselves so boldly. But as the song hit its climax, the lights all dimmed down to a soft, blue-tinted glow, the audience quieted, and Ronald leaned forward to clap a hand on his shoulder.

" _That's_ Alan Humphries, mate. The Star Sapphire of the Moulin Rouge."

And Eric's mouth dropped open.

* * *

Alan was perched high above the crowd on a swing descending from the ceiling as the first high, haunting notes of his song filled the room. Pale blue gems glittered from his earlobes, a silvery waistcoat left his back bare, showing off pale skin, and flowing, pale blue pants matched the color scheme of the routine. But the truly noteworthy detail of his outfit was the shoes, low-heeled to allow for easy dancing and done in a clear material that mimicked the glass slippers of fairy tales. He was Cinderella, making his appearance at the ball, only to disappear once his time was up. For her, it had been midnight, but for Alan, it was when his routine was over and he returned to the back to change and prepare for his meeting with the Duke. And who knew? Perhaps the man would turn out to be his Prince Charming.

But he knew better than to hope for that by now. He surveyed the crowd from above, watching the other dancers move into their own positions in time to the chiming, bell-like opening. And as the music picked up and the swing dipped towards the stage, he opened his mouth and began to sing.

 _"This story's missing a wishing well; no mirror to show and tell, no kiss that can break the spell. I'm falling asleep..."_ Alan had chosen the song on his own, and though Grell had needed to approve it, it was worth the fuss. He liked the ethereal, haunting quality of the opening, and especially the lyrics. _"Every prince is a fantasy...”_ As he reached the level of the stage, he took Asmodeus's hand to steady himself as he jumped gracefully from the swing to the polished floor. Continuing the movement into a turn, his partner met his every cue, dancing with him effortlessly before melting back into the routine of the other dancers. _“The witch is inside of me...”_ The next up was Grell, and they whirled together for a moment, during which Grell squeezed his ass and earned a loud cheer from the crowd. _“Her poison will wash away the memories..."_

In the brief moment between verse and chorus Grell danced away as well, leaving Alan to hold the floor all on his own. _"We kill the lights and put on a show. It's all a lie, but you'd never know. The star will shine, and then it will fall, and you will forget it all..."_

It was his own personal jab at everyone who frequented the Moulin Rouge. He knew why these people were here. Entertainment, beauty... They were as fickle as the underworld creatures that they paid to see and consort with. Alan had no doubts that his looks were a large part of what drew clients to him, that and the fact that they considered him some sort of challenge. But if his looks were to fade? They would move on to someone else, and forget all about him. And inevitably, one day, that's what would happen.

But the truly ironic thing about choosing this song was that none of them would notice. He could sing whatever he liked, take as many jabs at them as he wished, and no one would take offense. No one would feel slighted or hurt, because they would simply assume that he was playing hard-to-get. They were so used to getting their way with their money, so used to things being catered to them, that the idea that Alan was truly insulting them was probably laughable. They probably assumed that he wanted them, but had to put up a front so as to not seem “too easy”. Thomas certainly did.

Alan gestured grandly to his fellow dancers, who had kept up their own parts of the routine, singing, _"After midnight we're all the same, no glass shoe to bring us fame, nobody to take the blame..."_ He spun on one foot, the other trailing to display his own glittering shoes in the lights, before falling back into Asmodeus’s arms for a split second. The other courtesan caught him easily before nudging him back upright again, towards the front of the stage. _"We're falling apart._

 _"Every story's a waiting game, a flower for every name; their colors are paling in the falling rain..."_ He made his way across the dance floor smoothly, every step graceful. After the next chorus, that was when there would be a break, for each of the dancers to choose partners and have a brief interlude to dance with them. Alan scanned the crowds and balconies as he began the chorus again, finally meeting the gaze of a blond man at a table on the right who looked completely starstruck. The brunet was positive he'd never seen him before - he would remember that mad hairstyle, if nothing else - and was immediately amused. Someone new to the Moulin Rouge? What fun it would be to mess with the poor man...

As the chorus wound to a close, he headed for the stairs, people parting before him like a wave drawing back after breaking. _"The star will shine, and then it will fall, and you will forget it all...”_ And as the music trailed off, he came to a stop in front of the startled man, setting a hand on his hip and offering a smile.

“Care to dance?”

* * *

Eric had been watching the performance in awe. Alan Humphries was stunning, and the blond could see why he would be the crown jewel of this place. He moved effortlessly, gracefully, every movement fluid and practiced. He looked...untouchable. Barely real. Which was why it was such a shock when they locked eyes and the talented courtesan began making his way over to them.

The offer to dance was unexpected, and he found himself unable to respond, just staring at the beautiful man before him. Ronald was yammering something in his ear excitedly, pushing him out of his seat, and Alan pressed close as he finally managed to stand, resting one hand on his shoulder and winding his other arm loosely around his neck, playing with his hair. “Hi,” he said teasingly. “You weren’t expecting me?”

“Uh, n-no...” Eric managed, looking into the other’s bright emerald eyes and trying not to look like too much of a fool. Did Alan know who he was? Or was it just random chance that he’d been chosen?

Alan grinned, turning back to the floor and declaring, “It’s the dancers’ choice of partners tonight!” There was a minor grumble of disappointment from the crowd, but then they all turned their attention to trying to attract whatever pretty courtesan they wanted to dance with. Alan, meanwhile, grabbed Eric’s hand and winked before tugging him down the stairs and onto the floor.

The blond had never considered himself lucky that he’d been forced to take dance lessons as a child, but those hours of ballroom dancing were coming in handy now, as the music struck up an upbeat rhythm complementary to the haunting one of Alan’s song. As the partner of the Star Sapphire, he was right in the middle of everything, so the fact that he could actually keep up without mucking the footwork up to Hell and back was helpful. With one hand on Alan’s waist, very aware of the warm skin beneath the thin silver waistcoat, he let the courtesan hold tightly to his free hand as they glided across the floor.

“First time in the Moulin?” Alan teased, but his radiant smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Eric swallowed hard. “Y-Yeah. Actually jus’ got int’ Paris this mornin’...” He followed the music, leading the brunet in a turn before pulling him close again. “Wasn’ expectin’ t’ end up here.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Alan murmured, almost too low to be heard over the music. They danced easily, some strange fusion of tango and waltz, just going where their feet led them, sometimes close enough to grind, other times spinning apart and then back together. And Eric watched the Star, entranced. Lithe, lovely, with a smile that could light up the room. No wonder people would pay an exorbitant amount to spend time with him. The songwriter smiled in return, hoping that Alan would remember him later when he actually met with him about getting a job.

In the whirl of people around him, he caught a glimpse of Claude with the blond boy that Ronald had pointed out, while Ronald himself was dancing and flirting with a redheaded girl in a navy dress. Neither of them seemed the least bit awkward, clearly used to spending time in such an overwhelming atmosphere. Eric could only hope he’d get used to it quickly if he was going to have to spend a lot of time in the Moulin Rouge.

* * *

As the musical interlude wound towards a conclusion, Alan leaned up, pecking his startled partner on the cheek. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.” It was all part of the show, all to entice clients into returning to the club. Good business, as Grell would say. His current partner looked rather star-struck, and that was a good thing.

Alan pulled away, heading back towards the stage as the music gradually shifted back to the bell-like tones of the song he’d been singing before. He met Asmodeus at the front of the stage, and the other courtesan gave him a boost back onto his swing as the spotlights all swung around to illuminate him. _“Now you know, it’s so much better to pretend there’s something waiting for you here...”_ As the swing rose back up above the stage, the spotlights followed him, and he leaned forward daringly far to gesture towards the crowd with a wide sweep of his hand. _“Every letter that you wrote has found its way to me, my dear. You can make believe that what you say is what I want to hear...”_

There were actually people in the crowd smiling at that line, and Alan resisted the urge to roll his eyes and kept his smile firmly in place. Fools. All of them. He leaned back, as if putting himself on display, gripping onto one of the cords holding the swing up with one hand to keep himself from toppling backwards. _“I’ll keep dancing through... this beautiful, delusional... career...”_ Why was he so out of breath? The song wasn’t even that complicated. _“Faking every tear...looking like a...compromise...su-”_ He tried to get a deeper breath and couldn’t, only able to manage a few small gasps. His vision went fuzzy for a second, and as he coughed, trying to breathe, he lost his grip on the swing and fell backwards.

The audience gasped, and Asmodeus, who had headed over to the side of the floor, out of the spotlights, dashed back across the stage to catch the slender brunet, almost knocking over another dancer in the process. Alan landed hard, but safely, in his arms, and almost immediately tried to curl in on himself, still coughing. He seemed small and fragile in that moment, and the violet-haired courtesan listened to his friend’s ragged, shallow breathing, before looking up to lock eyes with Grell. It was only a split second, and then he was darting towards the entrance to backstage, Alan cradled against his chest.

Grell, expert improviser that she was, ran with it, coming forward with a swish of bright red skirts. “You’ve scared him off, you naughty things~!” she chastised, and the other dancers, picking up the cue, immediately backed away from whoever they’d been dancing with, shaking their fingers admonishingly. This wasn’t the first time Alan had suffered such an attack, but it was the first time it had happened during one of his solos. They all jumped to cover for him, though some looked more upset than worried. Grell grinned, continuing as brightly as she could, “Well, thankfully, there’s still a host of lovely dancers just waiting for new partners! So if you’re up for a dance, you can try to woo our lovely gentlemen and ladies!”

The crowd seemed just fine with this, and as activity resumed on the floor, the lady in red hurried backstage as well. Asmodeus had carried Alan into the nearest dressing area, lying him down on one of the couches and hovering worriedly. Several of the backstage crew had gone running to get Undertaker, and Alan continued to cough, only managing shallow, wheezy breaths. “C’mon, Alan, breathe… Just breathe… You’re safe… It’s all right…” Asmodeus tried to soothe, his eyes full of worry.

The silver-haired doctor swept into the room at almost the same time Grell did, going immediately to Alan and helping him sit up. “Straighten up, young Humphries. You’re going to be fine. Breathe all the way out, and then back in, slow as you can.” Glancing up at Asmodeus, he raised an eyebrow. “I’ve told you not to let ‘im lie down when this ‘appens. Do you really want to see ‘im turn blue?”

“No! I panicked. Give me a break!”

Undertaker giggled at the other’s offended reaction. “Calm down. Your panicking isn’t going to ‘elp ‘im at all.”

Grell came over to offer her still-coughing Sapphire a handkerchief, which he accepted gratefully and held to his mouth. He tried to follow Undertaker’s instructions to breathe all the way out before taking another breath, and slowly his chest began to feel less tight. Another few coughs, and he was able to actually take a full breath. 

Alan reached out to hand the handkerchief back to Grell with a wavery ‘thank you’, and Asmodeus noted that it was smeared with red. Honestly, his boss was ridiculous sometimes. Couldn’t she have found a handkerchief that wasn’t covered in lipstick? He rolled his eyes, not paying any more mind to that in favor of fussing over his friend. “Do you know what happened?” Sometimes there were triggers to Alan’s attacks. “Did you eat enough earlier?”

“Of course I did,” Alan objected weakly.

“Really? Because I only saw you eat a little bit before I had to go check on the others.” Alan looked sheepish, and the older courtesan sighed. “Alan!”

“I’m fine now, ‘Deus. Calm down.” He got up, wobbling a bit before getting his balance. “I need to go change.”

There was a giggle from the doorway, where a younger blond was holding onto the doorframe. “Yeah, can’t let the Duke know there’s anything wrong. He needs to get his money’s worth~”

Grell frowned. “Alois, don’t be a brat. You’re supposed to be on the floor. Shoo!” Honestly, the younger boy was more trouble than he was worth some days. He was nosy, and a gossip, and terribly childish. But she refused to throw anyone out, especially someone who didn’t have anywhere else to go, and that was definitely Alois. Looking back over at Alan to make sure he was all right, she said calmly, “Alan, do you feel well enough to meet with the Duke still?”

“I said I’m fine,” Alan huffed, swatting at Undertaker as the doctor poked at him. “I can’t keep the Duke waiting.” Narrowing his eyes at Grell, he added, “Did you really have to _grab my ass_ during the routine?”

Oh, yes, her little spitfire was just fine. “All right, then,” Grell nodded, blatantly dodging the Sapphire’s last question. “I’ll go speak with him and make sure everything is fine. Get yourself changed, and make sure you drink some water. If you pass out in front of the Duke, I’ll make sure you never live it down.” She flashed a sharp smile before sashaying out of the room, and not for the first time Alan was left to wonder if she was actually making a serious threat or not.

With Grell Sutcliffe as his boss, it was hard to tell sometimes.

* * *

When Grell located Duke William up in his private balcony, he was speaking very seriously with a nervous-looking young lady in very proper, buttoned-up work attire. The lady in red was tempted for a moment to barge in and see what the fuss was about, but a stern look from Anderson stopped her in her tracks. Really, what a brute! Surely he could forgive a lady being a bit of a gossip! But she waited impatiently until the aristocrat finished his conversation and turned his attention to her.

“My dear Duke, Alan is waiting for you upstairs~ He’s so looking forward to meeting you~” she began, but William cut her off before she could get any farther.

“It will have to wait,” he said curtly, getting up and reaching for his hat.

“W-What?” Grell stammered, caught off guard. She collected herself quickly, and asked, “Did we do something to displease you? I assure you, Alan truly wants to see you-”

The Duke raised an eyebrow. “Something has come up. There is paperwork waiting at the office that requires my signature. I shall return later this evening, if that does not inconvenience you or your...Sapphire?”

Oh, what a relief! So long as he was coming back, Grell would make whatever exceptions she needed to. “Of course it’s no inconvenience, darling~ Please come back whenever your business is finished! We’ll be waiting eagerly~” She leaned up against his arm, trailing her fingers down his sleeve.

Once again, he looked irritated with the term of endearment and the touch, but said nothing. “I shall return once my business is concluded. Good evening, Madame Sutcliffe.” With a gesture to Anderson and the dark-haired girl, he strode past her, heading for the exit to the club.

Grell returned backstage, smiling and waving at adoring patrons as she went. Once she was out of sight of the crowd, her walk grew more purposeful, and she swept back into the main area behind the stage, where Undertaker was still milling around. “Good news and bad news, poppets! ...where’s Alan and Asmodeus?”

“They went to get dressed,” Undertaker said, giggling. “What news, luv?”

“The Duke’s been called away on business. The good news is, he’s coming back once that’s concluded. The bad news is that we don’t know when that is.” She walked over and poked the silver-haired man in the stomach. “So. Are we going to go tell Alan he can relax for a little longer?”

Undertaker giggled. “Didn’t you say there was someone else ‘at wanted to meet with Alan? Ronald’s new songwriter or somesuch? Seems awful unfair to make ‘im wait some unknown amount o’ time for a meeting we promised ‘im.”

Grell considered that for a moment, then brightened. “We can just send Ronnie’s handsome newbie up in the meantime! It can’t take but so long to interview him, and that will keep Alan distracted. Because lord knows the poor dear will fret himself to death if he’s left to overthink his meeting with the Duke. Yes, this is a good plan~” She scurried over and grabbed hold of one of the dancers who had ducked backstage, a blonde girl in a frilly pink dress and knee-high heeled boots. “Lizzie, be a dear and go find Ronald’s little group, tell the big, handsome one with the odd hair that he’ll be meeting with Alan now, and run him up to the castle suite, would you?”

“Sure thing!” Lizzie hurried off with a bright smile, and Grell beamed at Undertaker.

“Care for a drink?”

Undertaker chuckled. “Of course, m’dear.”

They were halfway down the hall to the kitchen area when Grell suddenly snapped her fingers. “Did I tell Lizzie to let Alan know that he’s seeing Eric and not the Duke right now?” Undertaker just hummed noncommittally, and Grell shrugged. “Ah, well. He’ll figure it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alan's song is "Kill the Lights" by The Birthday Massacre.


	5. A Study in Sapphire

“So I get t’ meet with’im now?” Eric asked the blonde girl bobbing along ahead of him cheerfully. She’d found him where he’d still been sitting with Ronald, Sebastian, and Ciel in the main room, informing him that the Lady of the Moulin Rouge had instructed her to take him to Alan. The three troupe members still present had wished him luck; Claude had disappeared with the blond boy and had yet to return, but they assured him Claude wanted him to succeed too.

Lizzie looked back over her shoulder, beaming. "Yep! Apparently the Duke had something he needed to tend to, and Miss Grell didn't want to make you wait around for too long." She turned yet another corner, and Eric lengthened his stride to keep up, already lost in the maze of corridors and staircases that made up the rest of the Moulin Rouge. Several of the rooms they'd passed had rather...interesting vocalizations coming from them, and it just served to remind him of what this place was actually like.

Up a flight of stairs, a few more hallways, and Lizzie finally waved to the violet-haired man standing outside one of the rooms. "'Deus! I brought him!"

Asmodeus looked Eric up and down, and then bowed. "Pleasure to meet you. Asmodeus Amaryllis, Alan's bodyguard."

"Er...Nice t' meet you, too," Eric replied, dipping his head awkwardly in acknowledgment. _Bodyguard? Is this guy really so prized he needs a bodyguard? Whoever heard of such a thing?_ But then again, whoever heard of a bordello like the Moulin? Brothels in London were simple affairs, with none of the glitz and glamour that this place had. Clearly, things were very different in Paris.

Asmodeus, meanwhile, was scrutinizing Eric. _He doesn't look much like a Duke. But if Grell says so... As long as he's rich enough to be a good patron, I suppose it doesn't matter._ He offered a smile, gesturing to the door. "Alan's expecting you. Please, go on in."

Eric glanced at Lizzie nervously, and she gave him a thumbs-up before heading back down the hall towards the stairs. He took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping inside and closing it behind him carefully before turning to face the room.

It was designed to look like a room in a castle, with flowing, velvety drapes, glass doors and a balcony, and a four-poster bed done up in rich bedding. The floor was smooth stone, with a thick carpet settled in the middle, and soft lights meant to mimic candles shined from up on the walls. Eric took all of it in, then finally focused on the courtesan standing beside the bed, and his eyes widened.

Alan was wearing a black, corset-style top over lacy black briefs, with thigh-high black stockings, black heels, and a long, sheer lace robe. He looked every inch the high-class courtesan he was. With a charming smile, the slender brunet said, "Good evening. Please, come in. I've been waiting for you..."

"R-Righ'..." Eric stammered, still stunned. "I'm supposed t' speak t'ya...?"

The courtesan beckoned to him with a coquettish wink. “Well then… Come here, and let’s _talk._ ”

* * *

Alan was completely astonished to see that the man who had entered his current room was, through some bizarre coincidence, the very same that he had opted to dance with on the floor. Well. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all. This duke seemed to be rough, awkward, but also sweet. Maybe he could even do as Grell wanted and bring himself to sleep with the tall man tonight. Only one way to find out. It was easy enough to mask his surprise as he coaxed the other into the room.

Stepping inside and closing the door behind him, Eric looked at a loss for a second before he bowed nervously. "Eric Slingby, at yer service," he said, trying to be coherent. Alan was ravishing in lingerie, and that was _not_ what Eric had been expecting to see when he agreed to a meeting with the courtesan. They were just supposed to talk about him being employed here...right?

At _his_ service? Alan forced himself not to look incredulous. It was always the other way around. Was this Eric going out of his way to impress him? Although, Slingby sounded rather Scottish a name for a duke. Were there dukes in Scotland? Ah, but it wasn't his place to question. He should just be thankful that the man had introduced himself, so Alan wasn’t forced to look like an idiot by asking, since Grell hadn’t actually told him the Duke’s _name._ Instead of asking any questions, he wandered over to the bed, stretching out luxuriously on his stomach on the thick duvet. "It's so lovely of you to take an interest in our show," he purred, propping his chin on one hand.

"Yeah, well, it seems awfully interestin'," Eric said, sitting awkwardly on the opposite corner of the bed when Alan motioned him over. "Ronald seems proud o' it, a' least."

"Oh, you've already met Ronald?" The brunet shifted to look at him, more curious now. "That's brilliant. What did you think of his work?"

Eric grinned sheepishly. "Well, really, th' whole group of 'em's a bit weird, but Ron seems like he's got somethin' good here." He just needed to fix those lyrics up. If the whole show was like that first song, there was a _lot_ of work to be done.

"He hasn't shown anyone what they've been working on yet, so that's good to hear," Alan commented. "Some days I think he hasn't actually written anything; he's just blustering along to cover up the fact that he isn't done."

The blond burst out laughing. "Oh, tha'd be a riot! Grell'd blow a gasket!"

"She'd chase him out of here with as many sharp objects as she could find!"

Eric flopped backwards, unable to stop laughing, and even Alan was giggling at the mental image of his boss pursuing Ronald around with one of the prop swords or that random trident from one of the older shows or even the chainsaw that they kept back with the carpentry tools. The courtesan couldn't remember the last time a client had been able to genuinely make him laugh, and that was why he abruptly decided he was willing to try fulfilling Grell's wishes. Eric Slingby was handsome, seemed nice enough, and Asmodeus was right outside the door if anything went wrong. Not to mention Eric wasn’t looking at him like a piece of meat, like something to be claimed and used. Even Thomas, for all his efforts to be suave and charming, still couldn’t keep that look out of his eyes. Besides, this was for the Moulin's future, and the club’s future was his future. He sat up, leaning over Eric and smiling at how wide his eyes got. "So... Shall we get to why you're really here?"

"Oh, yeah, I, um," Eric articulated, promptly tongue-tied. What was wrong with him? Yes, Alan was funny and likeable and the prettiest guy Eric had ever seen, but how on earth could that smile, that look, keep him from stringing together three words? His potential future career was riding on his words right now.

The slender courtesan chuckled. “I’m sorry... Did I startle you? Forgive me~” He settled his hand on Eric’s knee, running up his thigh to massage at the front of his pants.

Eric’s cock certainly wasn’t objecting to the treatment in the slightest, if the spark of pleasure that shot up his spine was any indication, but his brain forced him to catch Alan’s wrist and pull his hand away, and he sat up quickly to look the brunet in the eyes. “W-Wait, wait, no. Wha’?”

“What’s the matter?” Alan asked, now looking just as confused as Eric felt. “Too fast?”

“N-No, I jus’...” He nudged Alan off of him, got up, and backed away from the bed a few steps, shifting from foot to foot agitatedly. “Wasn’ I goin’ t’sing somethin’ f’r ya?”

Alan blinked. “...okay...?” This was definitely new. This duke was rather bizarre. 

It was actually kind of refreshing.

The songwriter hummed for a moment, feeling terribly nervous. Had he made a mistake somewhere? “Is this okay? Is this what ya want?” Ronald wouldn’t have thrown him into a situation where he had to sleep with Alan to get the job, would he?”

“This is fine. It’s just...different,” Alan admitted quietly. “I don’t think anyone’s ever wanted to sing to me before.”

Eric regarded him curiously for a moment, feeling torn. He’d meant to sing part of Ronald’s opening song. Something actually from the show, to prove he knew what was going on. But looking at the beautiful courtesan, he could hear something else. And it took him only a moment to decide to run with that instead. Worst Alan could say was no. _“I know it’s not much, but it’s the best I can do... My gift is my song, and this one’s for you.”_

He looked away as he sang, almost afraid of Alan’s reaction, instead gazing at the elegant, arched glass doors and past the balcony to the courtyard below. _“I sat on the roof, and I kicked off the moss... Some of these verses, well, they’ve got me quite cross. But the sun’s been kind, while I wrote this song. It’s for people like you that keep it turned on...”_

Alan stared in awe. He hadn’t been expecting this at all. That voice... That voice was brilliant. And the words themselves... He got up, taking a few steps closer to the blond just as Eric turned back to face him and continued, _“So excuse me forgetting, but these things I do. You see, I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue...”_ He looked right into Alan’s eyes, and the brunet actually flushed a bit. _“Anyway, the thing is, what I really mean... Yours are the sweetest eyes, I’ve ever seen.”_

A smile crossed Eric's lips as he realized how enamored the courtesan looked. Hopefully that meant he was doing a good job. _“And you can tell everybody that this is your song. It may be quite simple, but, now that it’s done... I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind that I put down in words... how brilliant the light is you bring to the world...!”_ Alan was the shining jewel of the club after all, and Eric could completely appreciate his lovely radiance.

When the courtesan didn’t say anything for a long moment, he ventured to ask curiously, “Well...what did you think?”

Alan smiled, a bright, genuine smile that actually reached his eyes. “I think...that I am terribly lucky,” he murmured, walking over to drape his arms over Eric’s shoulders. “Who would have thought that you would be so talented? I can understand why you would want to help with the show now.” He pressed close as Eric’s hands settled awkwardly on his waist, and said happily, “And I get such a clever, talented duke all to myself~” He kissed Eric’s jaw.

“A duke?” Eric blinked, taking Alan by the shoulders and pushing him back to search his expression.

“Not that that’s the part I care about, but it is nice,” Alan said quickly, looking away in what he hoped was a demure fashion.

Eric managed a disbelieving half-laugh. “’m no’ a duke. ‘m jus’ a songwriter who wants a job.”

Alan stiffened. “You’re...what?” He backed up, looking Eric over quickly. “You’re not... You’re Ronald’s... She sent you in _before_ the Duke?!”

“I guess?” the songwriter said nervously. In the space of a moment, Alan had gone from looking completely blissed out listening to him sing, to angry as hell, and frankly, that freaked him out. Grell hadn't told him that he and the Duke had switched?

“Going to _kill_ her!” Alan cried. “I thought, just for a moment, that the Duke actually might be a good person, good for this place, and you’re _not even him._ ” He stomped over to the small counter in the corner of the room, opening a well-stocked liquor cabinet and pouring himself a glass of red wine. "At least, if you are Ronald's songwriter, you're good..."

The blond hesitated. "Ya...do like me, then?" It was strange, how Alan's attitude could change so abruptly. Gone was the coyness, the flirtatiousness, the coquettish demeanor that was obviously meant to be for impressing clients. Alan, apparently just as himself now and not the 'Star Sapphire', seemed to be far more...well, absinthian. Not that Eric had ever had absinthe, but he'd heard of it, and it seemed to suit Alan now. Pretty, but almost bitter. And with quite a temper, if his current fuming was anything to go by.

"Of course! I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at Grell."

"And...tha' bit abou' havin' me all t' yerself...?"

Alan sighed. "That was for the _Duke's_ benefit, if you were him." He took a sip of his wine. "My job is to make clients think I am in love with them, for as long as I need to. An hour, an afternoon, an evening... But it doesn't mean anything." He glanced around the room for a moment, then sighed again and said, "Let Grell know that you are acceptable. You can work on the show with Ronald and the others. I meant what I said before: I am not angry with you. I just wish you would have said why you were here sooner. It would have saved us both a great deal of embarrassment."

He walked over to the door, beckoning to Eric as he opened it. "'Deus?"

The other courtesan peered into the room. "Yeah?"

"This isn't the Duke."

" _What?_ "

"He's Eric Slingby. Ronald's new songwriter. The one who was supposed to come up here after the Duke," Alan explained calmly. "So unfortunately, you'll have to stick around a while longer." He turned back to Eric, saying firmly, "Return downstairs and tell Grell, word for word, 'Alan says I am allowed to work here despite the fact that he is _extremely_ irritated with you'."

Eric couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "A'ight. 'm sure she'll find tha' amusin'."

"Oh, I'm sure," Alan said dryly. "Goodnight, Mr. Slingby. I suppose I will see you around."

"Only if ya call me Eric," the blond replied with a grin.

Alan managed a smile. "Eric, then. Goodnight, Eric." He watched the songwriter leave, taking another sip of wine. Now, of course, he still had to deal with the Duke. Dealing with Eric hadn't been quite so difficult, and hopefully that streak of luck continued for the rest of the evening.

Now to wait for the Duke to actually arrive.

* * *

As it turned out, he wasn't waiting long. Only fifteen minutes or so passed before Asmodeus knocked on the outside door and called, "Alan? The Duke is here to see you."

Having already put away the wineglass, Alan smoothed his hair and adjusted his robe. "Show him in, 'Deus."

The door opened and a tall man with dark hair walked in. He couldn't have been more of Eric Slingby's opposite if he tried. His hair was nearly combed, his suit perfectly pressed and tailored, and he carried himself with an air of authority and nobility that, in comparison, Eric had been sorely lacking. Alan wondered how he ever could have mistaken the songwriter for an aristocrat, now that he had seen them both.

"Good evening, Your Grace." He dipped into something like a curtsey, positive that he had the right person this time.

The Duke just looked at him evenly. "Good evening." He didn't even seem to react to the lingerie, and Alan mentally cringed. He'd only worn this because Grell insisted it would be 'perfect', and now it appeared to have been in vain. Instead, the Duke set the briefcase he was carrying neatly beside the door, and continued, "I am Duke William T. Spears. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"The pleasure is mine, Duke William," Alan replied. "Would you care for a drink?" He gestured to the liquor cabinet, but the dark-haired man shook his head.

"I prefer not to imbibe alcohol when discussions need to be had. I wish to hear about this show that I am supposedly funding," William said curtly. "Ms. Sutcliffe did not particularly elaborate on the details." He hadn't been particularly impressed with the overly-amorous "queen" of the Moulin Rouge, but this young man...he was different. He wasn't like the flamboyant idiots still gallivanting about downstairs. He truly was the crown jewel of this...place.

Alan managed a beaming smile. "Oh, yes, the show. Well, a brand-new songwriter was just brought on. He's very talented."

"So I hear. Ms. Sutcliffe informed me he was up here earlier?"

"Yes. She asked me to judge his talents as a second opinion, to see if he was worth hiring." Was he imagining things, or did the Duke look...jealous? No, that was silly. Alan had been alone with hundreds of people before Eric. The Duke didn't know him well enough to be jealous. "I believe he will help improve the script significantly."

William raised an eyebrow. "I see..." He walked closer to Alan, catching his chin in one black-gloved hand. "I presume you will star in this production? After all, you are the 'Star Sapphire' of this establishment, and a lovely young man."

Startled, the brunet took a step back. "Y-Yes, I guess I will..." He hadn't been expecting the touch, and it made him nervous. This man was extremely hard to read. But that's what he had a bodyguard for. One word, and Asmodeus would throw William out, duke or not.

Yes, he'd have Grell after him later, but that could be dealt with far more easily.

William raised an eyebrow. "I was under the impression that there was more to this appointment than simple pleasantries, Mr. Humphries?" Now, at last, he looked Alan up and down, finally seeming to appreciate the younger male's outfit. "After all, we are up here alone, and Ms. Sutcliffe assured me I would have you all to myself this evening..."

Making a mental note to bludgeon Grell with something later, Alan pasted on a smile and tried to wiggle his way out of this line of conversation. "My dear Duke, forgive me, but there's been a bit of a mix-up..." He bit his lip, fighting the urge to pull away when William placed a hand on his shoulder. "I prefer to wait until a few appointments in..."

"Surely you can make an exception," the Duke said, "After all, do you not wish me to invest in your show?"

Alan stiffened. That was a low blow. He swallowed everything that he wanted to say, and instead continued smiling as best he could. "Oh, but Your Grace, it would be rather special to be courted. All those other men just sleep with me. I want this to be... special." He watched the Duke's expression shift, and knew he had hit something. "If we were to wait, take time to get to know each other... Wait until opening night..."

"Three months?" William questioned incredulously. "That seems a terribly long time to wait." His hand trailed from Alan's shoulder towards the small of his back, and Alan resisted the urge to shudder, resisted the desire to call Asmodeus, and instead carried on trying to convince the man to stop with words alone.

"That would make it so much more...special and...intimate..." Damn it, damn it, he was going to kill Grell twice over if he could manage it for putting him in this situation.

The Duke seemed to be considering it. His hand, at least, had stopped moving, resting benignly at Alan's mid-back, for the moment. "Special, hm?"

"Oh, yes, certainly," Alan insisted, sensing that he was close. "I would not insist on such if it were..." and he took a shot in the dark, "someone _lesser_ than Your Grace. Being courted by you would be a privilege." From the look on the dark-haired man's face, Alan knew he'd hit his mark and said just the right thing to save himself...for the moment.

William looked thoughtful, and finally acquiesced, "I suppose you are right. Opening night, then." Though, he thought to himself, agreeing to this by no means meant that he wouldn't attempt to win Alan over in the meantime. He would certainly bed him before opening night, if given the opportunity.

"So you will invest?" Alan asked hopefully.

"I still need to know what the story of the show is. I'd like to be certain that it is something that I feel will be a success."

"Give me just a moment, I'll get Mr. Slingby and Mr. Knox to come explain. They've been very secretive about the script so far." Alan brushed past him to the door, opening it to look around for Asmodeus. "'Deus, will you get me Eric and Ronald? The Duke wishes to know more about the plot of the show."

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow, confused at the abrupt request, but nodded. "As you wish, Alan." He headed off down the hall, and Alan leaned against the door for a moment, surreptitiously breathing a sigh of relief. That had gone better than it could have. Hopefully Eric and Ronald could weave an interesting enough story to suit the Duke's tastes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Your Song", obviously the Moulin Rouge version, with one tiny lyrical tweak, since there's no 'love at first sight' happening here.
> 
> I'm realizing now, reading this back over, that my portrayal of Will is sort of based on an rp version of Will I used to read. 
> 
> ...that mun's Will was kind of a bastard. X''''D


	6. Spectacular Spectacular

Upon leaving Alan's room, Eric had waved goodbye to Asmodeus as well before setting off to attempt to make his way back downstairs. But it was to no avail, as not five minutes after leaving, he was hopelessly lost. The Moulin couldn't possibly be big enough to get lost in, but here he was, having apparently gone down the wrong staircase and ended up in a hallway he didn't recognize at all. There were plenty of people around, if the lewd sounds coming from behind some of the doors were accurate, but no one that he could ask for directions out of this madhouse. He tried backtracking the way he'd come, considering seeing if he could find his way back to Alan's room to ask the bodyguard how to get back downstairs. But no sooner did he make it back up to his original floor than he ran headfirst into Ronald.

"Eric!" Ronald cried, grinning. "Where have you been, mate? How did it go? Did he like you?"

"I think?" Eric said, blinking as he realized the whole troupe was there. Even Claude. "What're you lot doin' up here?"

"Looking for you," Ciel said flatly. "You never came back downstairs. We thought it was necessary to make sure you hadn't been kidnapped or something."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Nah, nothin' like that. He thought I was th' Duke, though. Grell apparently didn' tell 'im that I was comin' up here firs'. But I think he likes me. Said I could work here, at any rate."

"That's fantastic!" Ronald cheered. "Oh, man, we should go celebrate!"

"He still needs to let Grell know that he will be allowed to work here," Sebastian pointed out calmly.

Ronald pouted, clearly wanting an excuse to go party. "All right, all right, let's go find Grell, then." Presumably the redhead was still downstairs, running the floor, but as they made their way back down the winding hallways towards the other staircase, they encountered Grell coming around one of the corners. She looked surprised to see them, but sashayed up, her heels clicking on the wooden floor, to raise an unamused eyebrow at them. 

"And what are all of you doing up here?"

"Our songwriter got lost coming back downstairs," Ciel said dryly.

Grell rolled her eyes. "Really, now? Are you sure you weren't trying to sneak a bit of time up here without me knowing~?" She sidled closer to Sebastian, walking her fingers up his arm. "Although, I'm sure that could be arranged." Sebastian didn't react, and she pouted a bit before looking over at Eric. "Well, what did Alan say, darling?"

Eric grinned. "He said t' tell ya, an' I quote, 'Alan says I'm allowed t' work here despite th' fact tha' he's _extremely_ irritated with ya.' With that emphasis an' everythin'."

Shaking her head a bit, Grell actually laughed. "Oh dear. He's upset about me sending you in first?"

"Upset migh' be a bit of an understatement. I thought he might actually go homicidal on me."

"I'll make it up to him later," Grell tittered, obviously amused at the notion of her little Sapphire on a homicidal rampage. "The good news is, you got the job!" Brilliant, brilliant. She was never going to object to the notion of having another handsome man around the place. The more, the merrier! "All right, dears, probably time to go back downstairs, now. Have a drink, celebrate in the manner of your choosing, etcetera~" She winked, and most of the troupe made faces back at her, knowing exactly what she was implying.

Eric glanced back in what he guessed was the direction of Alan's room, wondering how the brunet was faring with the actual duke. But he blinked when he saw Asmodeus approaching, waving at the group to catch their attention. "Huh?"

"Alan wants you," Asmodeus said when he got close enough, and Eric had to briefly stop his mind from going somewhere it shouldn't. "You and Ronald, he wants you to explain the plot of the show to the Duke."

"That means the Duke is interested!" Grell cried, before either blond could respond. "That's wonderful! All of you, move along, he can meet you all at once: the whole creative team behind the show!" She urged them all forward, ignoring Asmodeus trying to stammer something about how Alan wasn't expecting all of them.

When they reached Alan's current room, Grell breezed ahead, calling, "Alan, dearest, I heard that the Duke is interested in the show~! I've brought our theatre troupe so he can hear the story~"

Alan, who had been awkwardly attempting to make small-talk with the dark-haired noble about his business ventures, looked like he was barely restraining himself from having a fit at his too-chipper boss. "That's..." Deep breath. "That's wonderful. Duke William is looking forward to meeting the writers behind the show." As the others filed in behind Grell, the brunet pointed them out in turn. "This is Sebastian Michaelis, the main musician of the troupe. Ciel Phantomhive, our young actor. Claude Faustus, the choreographer. Ronald Knox, the main writer. And Eric Slingby, the new songwriter. All of them are very talented."

The Duke and Eric eyed each other, Eric wondering what the nobleman was like, and William scoping out the man who had already spent time alone with Alan that evening. Finally, Duke William nodded curtly. "I shall reserve judgment until I see their work. Now... What exactly is the story of this play?"

* * *

There was a long moment of silence, and Eric was baffled. Why wasn't Ronald saying anything? Was he really that intimidated by this guy? The other three seemed to be keeping mum as well, so when the Duke narrowed his eyes, seeming to become irritated, Eric blurted, "It's abou' an angel!" That was literally all he knew, based on that one song he'd heard, but Ronald was nodding now.

"And it's set at Christmas!" the blond chimed in at last. Eric resisted the urge to thump him in the head. Chiming in late to explain his own play? Really?

The Duke looked skeptical. "Christmas? For a play opening on New Year's Eve? Doesn't that seem a bit past an acceptable point to show such a thing?"

"Well, it's mostly winter. No' necessarily Christmas," Eric replied, swooping to the rescue again. "But there's def'nitely an angel. Th' most beautiful angel tha's ever descended t' Earth. A pure-hearted being like no other." His gaze drifted to Alan as he spoke, and locked with surprised emerald eyes for a moment before Alan looked away.

"I see. But what is this angel's purpose? What drives the story?" William asked. "A compelling narrative is critical to the success of any play."

Eric stared at Ronald, who stared right back. Considering that the play's writer didn't seem to want to explain anything, Eric was getting worried. Ronald began hesitantly, "Well, the angel was supposed to come down and get something..."

"A soul!" Eric added. "He was meant t' guide a soul up t' Heaven." Ronald was nodding along, so Eric plowed onward, making things up as he went along. "But this soul didn' want t' die, y'see, an' th' kindhearted angel felt bad f'r it. But souls're tricky, an' when th' angel's guard was down, th' soul attacked him an' left him with a fatal disease."

"Aren't angels immortal?" the Duke asked. Grell, Alan, Asmodeus, and Ciel were all paying rapt attention as well, though Ciel was trying very hard to hide his interest.

Eric nodded. "Usually. But this was a special kinda disease tha' could only affect divine beings. It was th' only thing tha' could kill someone like him. It was called th' Thorns o' Death." He gestured emphatically towards the stone floor. "So this angel is left hurt, crippled, an' is found by a poor clerk, who takes him in. T'gether, they look f'r a cure, an' eventually discover tha' th' only thing tha' can cure th' Thorns..."

"Is one thousand souls," Sebastian interjected. "One thousand pure souls in exchange for the divine soul of an angel."

Duke William looked intrigued, and Grell let out a small gasp. One thousand seemed like an impossibly large number.

Eric took a step over, setting his hands heavily on Grell's shoulders. "Yeah, one thousan' souls. An' th' clerk has no idea how he'll get tha' many." He turned then to face the Duke. "But there's also a spoiled Prince who rules th' kingdom, and he wants th' angel f'r himself. He collects things, y'see, rare an' mystical curiosities, an' a real angel would be a priceless treasure."

"He can get one thousand souls, easy," Ronald continued, and everyone turned to look at him. "He has enough subjects that it would be simple. So he offers the cure to the angel in exchange for coming to stay at the castle. But the angel refuses, because he can't agree to that much death for his sake, and because he's fallen for the clerk, and the clerk for him!"

"The Prince grows angry," Ciel chimed in. "He wants the angel, whatever the cost. So he summons a demon and commands the demon to threaten them. He tells the angel he knows how to get rid of the demon if the angel comes to him, but otherwise, the demon will kill the clerk." It was almost like a game at this point, as each member of the troupe added something to the story that Eric had begun.

Sebastian stepped in next. "The demon doesn't care either way. If the angel goes to the Prince, the Prince has promised the demon many souls. If the angel refuses, the demon gets both the clerk's soul and his promised reward."

"The angel initially goes with the Prince, thinking he can at least keep his love safe from the demon," Claude said, one hand over his heart. "Which was seemingly a practical decision, because then the clerk wouldn't have to watch him die slowly."

"But th' clerk goes after th' angel, an' sings a special song tha' reminds th' angel how much he loves th' clerk, an' t'gether they run away from the Prince's castle, even though th' demon is set on their tails with permission t' kill them both."

William raised an eyebrow. "And so do they perish at the end of this escapade?"

Everyone looked at each other, a bit at a loss. Another awkward silence fell, but this time they were saved by Alan, who stepped forward to brush his fingers over the Duke's cheek. "That would spoil the ending," he said smoothly, offering a charming smile. "Won't it be more fun to see how it concludes during dress rehearsal?"

"I suppose you are right." Duke William caught Alan's hand, pressing a polite kiss to the back of his knuckles before releasing him. "Generally, I like it. I shall wait until rehearsals begin to make my final judgments, however."

Eric caught the flicker of annoyance in Alan's eyes and frowned as the brunet stepped back, away from the dark-haired man. His smile wasn't reaching his eyes again.

"Oh, we're so honored that you like our work~" Grell gushed, latching onto William's arm, clearly having no issues with him at all. Though the same could not be said for the Duke, who was eyeing Grell like one might stare at a particularly stubborn, clingy child.

"Again, I shall wait to make my final judgments," William said firmly.

"Which I'm sure will be wonderful~" Grell breezed over to the liquor cabinet, pulling out several fancy cups and a bottle of eerily green alcohol. "Let's celebrate this wonderful occasion! The newest show of the Moulin Rouge has been approved~" She poured the liquor, making quite a show of it, and passed the cups around. Eric eyed it suspiciously, realizing that it must be absinthe. But when glasses were clinked together and Grell declared, "To the show!" he downed it in one swallow, mimicking the others.

It _burned,_ and he ended up spluttering obscenities into his glass. That earned a laugh from almost everyone, and as he tried to play it off like it was nothing, Alan offered him a handkerchief to wipe his face.

"Don't worry," the courtesan said with a wink. "You get used to it eventually."

* * *

The Duke excused himself after a while, claiming that he had no time or patience for drunken parties, but that didn't stop the rest of them from continuing to celebrate their good fortunes. Eric had a job, the troupe had a show, and the Moulin had a patron. There was little reason not to be happy, and as the night waned on and the alcohol continued to flow, they eventually migrated downstairs and into one of the private rooms, where the lights were dim and the couches squashy, and where occasionally a client could request a private dance. Tonight, though, they just ended up lying around on the couches, hovering somewhere just above 'tipsy'.

"Nobody wants to get up and try to dance?" Grell asked, giggling, pointing at the pole on the small stage in the middle of the room.

Alan rolled his eyes. "I'm not."

"Why nooooot?" the redhead whined. They'd switched to red wine, Alan's favorite, after a while, so no one was as drunk as they could be, it was still enough to get them to drop their guard and pick at each other.

"That's 'Deus's thing, not mine." Alan was adamant, and he shook his wineglass at Grell emphatically. Thankfully there wasn't enough wine left in it to slosh out of the glass.

Ciel huffed. "It doesn't seem like something that's that difficult. You're just being stubborn."

"Not that difficult?" Claude said, raising an eyebrow. "Ciel, have you ever attempted it yourself? Alois has had to work for years to be able to master some of the moves."

"Oh, yes, because I'm sure your little boyfriend is perfect at it," Sebastian teased. "Does he put on private shows for you?"

"Shut up, Michaelis."

"Make me, Faustus."

"Both of you shut up." Ciel set his glass aside and got to his feet. He'd had less to drink than most of the rest of them, but was still a bit wobbly as he walked over to the stage. Everyone watched curiously as he climbed up and grabbed hold of the pole. "Watch," he ordered, and pushed off into what should have been a graceful spin around the pole. But, without the practice needed to know how tightly to grip to keep hold of the pole and still be able to move around it freely, his grip wasn't tight enough and he promptly slid down the pole and landed on his ass, much to the amusement of his drunken troupe-mates and Grell. Even Alan cracked a smile, as Asmodeus got up to help Ciel up and flop back on the couch beside Sebastian. The young actor pouted, and Ronald waved to get his attention.

"Hey, at least you tried. None of the rest of us are going to," he said cheerfully, taking another swig of his beer. He'd turned down the wine in favor of another bottle. "We're not dancers at all, except Claude. Just writers and stuff."

Grell got up to pour herself another glass, eyeing all of them. "Writers. Ha. You're lucky the Duke liked your improvised little ramble, or you'd be out of a job right now. Don't ever do that again!"

Putting on his best charming smile, Sebastian inclined his head respectfully. "We apologize for any stress our actions may have caused." He met Grell's gaze calmly, and she couldn't help but titter a bit.

"You're also lucky you're handsome." She swept over to sit on his other side, wrapping an arm around his possessively. "I think I'll just have to come up with some way to keep you under my control next time~" The statement was absolutely dripping with innuendo, but Sebastian didn't even flinch.

"If it pleases you."

The redhead beamed. "Oh, it would~"

Across the room, Eric found himself watching Alan. It was interesting seeing the brunet so relaxed and unguarded, joking with Asmodeus or chiming in to poke fun at Grell's insistent snuggling against Sebastian. It was interesting getting to see so many sides of him: this, plus the act he put on as the Star Sapphire and the frustrated man practically breathing fire at Eric and Grell. He couldn't explain why he found Alan so fascinating, he just did, and he continued staring without meaning to for a long while, until he was drawn out of his reverie for a last round of absinthe and another toast. He handled it much better the second time, and caught Alan watching him with a small smile on his face for a brief moment.

The employees of the Moulin Rouge, mildly drunk and giddy with the knowledge that the show was moving forward, eventually made it home to their own beds, knowing that the following day was when work would begin. 

The show must go on, after all.


	7. The Language of Flowers

The next morning, everyone ended up sleeping in, having worn themselves out dancing and drinking the night before. It was just past noon, and Eric was nursing a cup of coffee in the hopes of soothing his mild hangover, when there was a loud knock on the door. Wondering who could possibly want him when he was barely awake, Eric got up and went to answer, still clutching his mug in one hand. Ronald was revealed to be standing outside, with a bright smile and no apparent hangover.

"Morning, Eric!" Ronald slipped around him, heading over to the small table where Eric kept his typewriter and setting down a stack of papers. "We need to get started on the script if we're going to have this show onstage by New Year's!"

Eric blinked at him, trying to ignore the dull, groggy feeling in his head. "...yer not mad?"

"Mad about what?"

"All o' us usurpin' yer show like that. Tha' can' be what ya originally had written down." The songwriter walked over to pull up a second chair as Ronald plopped down in the first and kicked his feet excitedly. He pulled the typewriter closer to himself and took a seat, eyeing the younger blond. "Well?"

Ronald grinned. "Well... Your show is definitely better than any ideas I had. I mean, a fatal disease that only affects immortals? That's brilliant!" He shuffled through the papers he'd brought, which were covered in some of the worst handwriting Eric had ever seen, and continued, "I wrote down as much as I could remember, but we still need an ending."

Eric shrugged. "Well, isn' there somethin' we could cannibalize from yer endin'? I'm sure we could figure somethin' out."

There was an immediate shift in younger blond's expression. With a stupidly endearing sheepish grin he admitted, "I...didn't actually have anything. I was just sort of making up little bits and pieces as I went."

Eric burst out laughing. "Really?" When Ronald nodded, he only laughed harder. "Blimey, me an' Alan were just talkin' abou' that las' night! He said he thought some days that you were jus' tryin' t' cover up th' fact that y'weren't done. An' he was right!" He had to set his coffee down to keep from spilling it everywhere, and even though it made his head throb, it took him a minute to stop laughing.

"Aw, shut up," Ronald complained. He was forced to wait impatiently until the elder was done laughing, then said defensively, "Grell was expecting a show, and I had writer's block! We really needed this job, I mean, I figured I'd get the inspiration eventually."

"Y'r so lucky I turned up," Eric replied, rolling his eyes and retrieving his coffee, still grinning. "Otherwise Grelly'd be eatin' ya f'r breakfast."

Ronald scoffed. "Well, what about Alan? Seems like you two got on pretty well, if you had time to make fun of me during your visit." He flipped through his scribbled notes again, rereading up to where they'd stopped.

"He's...okay, I guess. Prickly li'l git." Eric shrugged. "I can see why people like 'im, though. He's pretty, an' he knows how t' put on a good act f'r his clients."

"Riiiiiiiight, he thought you were the Duke, you must have gotten the brunt of him being charming. Must have been fun~" Ronald teased.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes again, Eric countered, "Awkward is more like it. I was just expectin' t' have t' sing somethin' f'r him. I didn' know if ya'd put me in a situation where I'd have t' sleep with'im t' get th' job r'not."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"Well I didn' know!"

Ronald laughed. "Come on, come on, it all worked out. We've got a script to write." He showed Eric a sheet that the songwriter could mostly decipher if he squinted, and asked, "So the angel comes down to retrieve a soul, and the soul attacks him. How are we going to stage that?"

It was hard, since he didn't know the exact ways that the stage could be manipulated. He had to go off of what he had seen the night before. "What if we find two o' th' dancers tha' look similar, an' have one be th' dyin' person, in jus' a spotlight, an' have th' other waitin' outside th' spotlight dressed all in white 'r somethin'? No other lights, jus' a spotlight on th' person an' one on th' angel."

"Oooh, that's good!" Ronald scribbled down a note on his paper. We can start with normal lights and then fade down to just the spotlights. What about the angel? Are we using the swing, or should we go for the flight harnesses?"

"They've got flight harnesses in there?" Eric's eyes widened. "Tha's amazin'. Tha'd be perfect."

Ronald wrote that down too, grinning giddily. "Oh, this is going to be awesome! Grell's going to love it!" It would be big and dramatic, and Grell definitely loved her dramatics. "Between that and the whole doomed love story thing... Are they going to die at the end?"

Eric hesitated. "Well... How'd th' clerk ever manage t' gather a thousan' souls in time? He could try, I s'pose, but he'd get stopped b'fore he got anywhere near finishin'."

"We'll have to think about it." Ronald shrugged. "We've got everything else to write first, I suppose. Although, you know Grell's probably going to try to romanticize the tragic ending with everyone dying."

"Eh. We'll deal with it when we get there." Like Ronald said, the whole rest of the show needed to be written first. It would be a long while before they'd have to think about the ending.

* * *

Meanwhile, over in the Moulin, the Duke had taken his lunch hour to visit and spend time with Alan, and the courtesan was attempting to explain some of the ways that the club functioned. Grell worked very hard to ensure that the Moulin Rouge was more than just another sleazy bordello in the lower districts. It was a gem among plain gravel.

"There are dancers who work here who are not courtesans," Alan was explaining. They were sitting up in one of the special areas near the stage, watching the many people down on the floor. "Obviously they dance in the shows, but they don't spend the night with clients. Ms. Sutcliffe calls them 'companions'. They meet with people in the evenings for dinners or to give private dances, but go no farther."

William raised an eyebrow. "But in a way, are they not still selling themselves?"

"I...suppose?" Alan acknowledged hesitantly, unable to tell if the comment was a criticism or not. "But for the younger dancers we have here, especially, it's a better option than in a regular brothel, where no one would care how old they were. Ms. Sutcliffe isn't going to force anyone to do anything that they truly feel uncomfortable with." She hadn't specifically _ordered_ Alan to sleep with the Duke the previous night, after all. Just strongly suggested it. "When I first arrived here, I did not take clients as a courtesan, and she did not make me. I chose this path on my own." _Because the money was better, and I will be able to leave sooner,_ he thought, but did not add.

"And how many...'clients' have you had?" the Duke asked.

"More than I'd care to count," Alan muttered. "I do not regret my choices, but this was not the life I would have chosen for myself." He missed the vaguely off-put expression on the Duke's face, and by the time he looked at William again, the other's expression had returned to its neutral state.

"I can't imagine anyone would voluntarily _choose_ to lower themselves to this type of work. But who knows, with the mutts that inhabit the so-called 'underworld'?" William mused, and Alan looked at him uncertainly. Was that...meant to be an insult? And if so, was it directed at the Moulin, or other brothels less refined than this? Fortunately he was saved from having to reply as a familiar scent reached his nose. The Duke seemed aware of it too, as he asked, "What smells like oranges?"

"Blood oranges," Alan corrected without thinking, then clapped a hand over his mouth. "I apologize, my dear Duke, I didn't mean to sound...sharp. I've simply heard him correct people one too many times, and it's become a reflex." He turned away from the Duke to look towards the stairs, polite air firmly in place as he offered a charming smile to the platinum-blond man who stood there. "Oliver, what a pleasure to see you."

Oliver walked over to the couch, smiling and offering a bouquet to the brunet courtesan. "Thomas mentioned that there was an accident last night, and I wanted to make sure that you were all right. He does have a tendency to exaggerate, dramatic man that he can be." As Alan took the bouquet, he added, "I know that you are skilled at the meanings of flowers, and I was assured by the florist that I had chosen the proper ones to convey my message."

Peering at the bouquet curiously, Alan kept his smile on his face as he looked through the flowers. They all seemed to be pink, and he wasn't sure if that was something Oliver was going for or not. Pink snapdragons for strength...expressing some sort of wishes for his health? Pink hyacinths for play...which was appropriate for Oliver, certainly. And then dark pink orchids. Exotic beauty, which he supposed he should be flattered over, but also femininity. Was that on purpose? Perhaps Oliver's florist had assumed the flowers were for a woman.

But he smiled at the other regardless. Oliver had probably only done this because he knew Thomas hadn't been by to see him yet. They were constantly competing for Alan's affections, and for some reason assumed that the courtesan hadn't noticed. "They're lovely. Thank you." Glancing at the Duke and noting the mildly irritated expression on his face, he said quickly, "My apologies. Your Grace, this is Baron Oliver Morrison. Oliver, this is Duke William T. Spears, the new patron of the Moulin Rouge."

"Ah. A pleasure, Your Grace." Oliver shook his hand politely, then nodded to Alan. "I'm afraid I only had time to drop off the bouquet, Alan. But I'll see you tonight?"

Oh. It was the night Oliver had his appointment, wasn't it? Alan nodded. "Of course, Oliver. Until tonight." He watched the other man disappear back down the stairs, and sighed. "My apologies, Duke William. I wasn't expecting Baron Morrison this afternoon."

"You are seeing him tonight?" the Duke asked, and this time Alan was certain that he was seeing jealousy in the nobleman's eyes.

"He makes an appointment once a week, as does Vicomte Battenhall," the brunet said smoothly, attempting to soothe whatever ill feelings the Duke had. "It is routine at this point. No more, no less."

William frowned. "I do not approve of the idea of you spending time intimately with other men."

This, more than anything, baffled Alan. The Duke hadn't shown any indication until now that he expected Alan to be bound exclusively to him. It made sense for him to be jealous, but at the same time, Alan was a courtesan. What did the nobleman want, exactly? "None of those appointments mean anything," he said easily, masking his confusion. "You're the only one who has ever bothered to court me."

"Morrison apparently brings you flowers."

"Baron Morrison brings me flowers in an effort to outdo Vicomte Battenhall. Not because he specifically wants to court me," Alan countered. "I am a prize to them, not a potential partner."

"That does not change the fact that I do not approve." William raised an eyebrow. "Your appointments with Battenhall and Morrison appear to be prearranged agreements that must be honored, but anything outside of that can be turned down, can it not?"

"If...that is what Your Grace wishes," Alan said quietly. Honestly, that was probably going to end up happening anyway, as rehearsing for the show would take precedence, but it was unnerving to be ordered to reject new clients. "I will turn away new clients, but I must continue seeing my regulars. Not just Thomas and Oliver, but any others as well."

"If you insist." The Duke didn't seem pleased with the compromise, but appeared to not wish to argue further. Alan mentally sighed in relief, then leaned up and pecked the dark-haired man on the cheek.

"Please don't worry, Your Grace. Everything is just fine."

 

* * *

 

Oliver's appointment passed without a hitch, and Alan dressed himself in a pair of soft flannel pajamas afterwards. It was so nice to be able to strip off all of the lacy lingerie or sparkling costumes and just wear something comfy. He was in the elephant room again, and he admittedly liked that one quite a lot, and opted to sleep there when he got the opportunity. It was separate, away from the clamor of the rest of the Moulin, and he liked the relative quiet.

Asmodeus stuck his head in the door briefly to check if Alan needed anything and to promise to check in again after his own appointment, before heading off back to the main building and leaving the brunet on his own. Alan took the stairs up to the small area on the top of the elephant, looking around at all of the lights and colors before noticing a single person walking around down in the courtyard. Considering he had never seen anyone else with half a head of braids, Alan knew it was Eric right away. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he should speak, then decided he was too curious about why the songwriter was creeping around so late in the evening.

"Eric?" he called, and smiled a bit as the other man looked around in confusion. "Up here!"

Eric looked up, and raised an eyebrow at the courtesan perched atop the elephant. "What're ya doin' up there?"

"I'm sleeping here for the night. There's a room in here." 

The blond looked baffled. "Why would ya wanna sleep in an elephant? Don' ya have yer own room in this giant madhouse? Y're the star; surely ya got the nicest room here."

That earned a laugh from the younger. "Of course I do. This room is more interesting."

Eric looked over the elephant skeptically, and Alan suddenly had a strange desire to invite him up, to prove that the room really was as interesting as he said. He knew that that was stupid; Asmodeus was gone to his own appointment, and he barely knew Eric. Letting the other in when he was alone was the least-safe thing he could do. But something about the other man made Alan want to trust him, and he hesitated only a moment more before finally saying, "Come up and see. It's all very Indian-themed."

"How d' I do that?"

Alan chuckled. "There's a door in the base of the elephant's back leg." He watched as Eric disappeared in search of the door, and walked back downstairs into the room itself to unlock the main door. The songwriter came in a few minutes later, looking fascinated by all of the decorations. "What do you think, Eric?" It was strange. He'd only known the blond for a day, but he felt comfortable enough to be alone around him. Eric just gave off this air, like a big, broad teddy bear. He was...safe.

"Does Grell do all th' decoratin' in this place? It's all so diff'rent dependin' where y'are in th' buildin'," Eric said, still looking around.

"Grell has a say in a lot of it, but she doesn't do it all herself." Alan beckoned him to follow up the stairs. "So, why are you wandering the Moulin so late?"

Looking incredibly sheepish, Eric ran a hand through his hair as he followed the other up to the top of the elephant. "Some o' th' people tha' work backstage were showin' me how some o' the stage effects work. So we can write'm in when we're doin' the script. I sorta...got lost tryin' t' find th' front door. I thought this was it, but it's jus' th' courtyard..."

Alan laughed as they reached the top and took seats on one of the benches up there. "You went the complete wrong direction. How on earth did you manage that?"

"I don' know!"

"Well, you're here now. Might as well admire the view."

And Eric did, taking in the lights and colors much as Alan himself had been doing earlier. "It must be amazin' t' work here. T' get t'see all o' this every night... Bein' onstage..." he murmured, gaze drifting over the windmill that stood over the entrance, just visible over the rest of the building.

"It's not as wonderful as you're imagining," Alan said wryly, pulling one knee up and wrapping his arms around it to rest his chin on. "Not everything is lights and pretty costumes and music."

"But y're so talented," Eric said earnestly. "Y're a fantastic singer, an' y're th' star o' th' show. 'm sure everyone looks up t' ya. An' everyone who comes here knows yer name, don' they? It'd be great, bein' so famous..."

"What about being thought of as a toy? Being paid for sex?" Alan asked before he could stop himself. He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but clearly didn't do a very good job, as Eric glanced at him, looking startled.

"I guess I didn' think of it like tha'..."

Alan smiled wryly. "No one really does. They just see the glamour of the performance and assume everything is wonderful. A constant party. And they assume that we like catering to their...appetites. But they aren't still here when we can take those masks off and show what we really feel." He trailed his hand absently through a planter full of lavender flowers that sat alongside the bench, one of three that formed the enclosed little space of the seating area. 

Eric frowned. "So...y'don' like it here?"

"There are little things that make it better. Grell lets me have flowers in most of the rooms, at least the ones that I'm in most often. And she doesn't force anyone to do anything that they genuinely don't want to. But this place..." Alan swallowed hard. "It's still a cage. A pretty, gilded cage that I'll be in until I earn enough money to escape. Then I'll have a home, a garden..."

Eric watched him curiously. "Y'...like flowers, then?" It was the best he could think of to say; he didn't know how to respond to the more personal things. He was okay at comforting people, but he'd never had anyone reveal something like this before.

"Yes." Alan picked a purple blossom and held it up against the sleeve of his pajamas, which were almost the same color. "These are called 'ericas'. In the language of flowers, they mean 'loneliness'. I feel like they suit me." He laughed weakly. "All by myself in a gilded cage, just trying to get out."

There was silence for a moment, and then Eric said bluntly, "That's silly." Alan blinked, unsure whether to be offended by the comment or not. Was Eric calling him silly for relating to the flowers...or for feeling lonely?

"Excuse me?" 

But Eric continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "All of those flowers've got other flowers bloomin' around 'em, right? An' y've got people here. At th' very least, Asmodeus cares abou' ya. And I'm sure y've got other friends who care abou' ya too." He hesitated a second, then said, "An' me, too, I s'pose." He turned away to gesture to one of the other planters. "So how can ya say they're lonely? Everyone's got someone."

He hadn't been expecting the blond to say something like that. After the initial reaction of "that's silly", he'd been expecting ridicule for what he felt. But Eric seemed to understand, in a way, and Alan started to reach out for the other man. He wasn't sure why what Eric was saying affected him so much, but his hand was halfway to Eric's shoulder before he stopped himself. What was he planning on doing, anyway? Eric was still practically a stranger, no matter how comfortable Alan felt around him. He settled his hands back in his lap as the songwriter turned back to him, just saying quietly, "You're right... I just... No one's ever really listened to me like that before. Except 'Deus. ...Thank you." He compromised with himself, tucking the erica blossom into Eric's buttonhole.

"Y're welcome. Y're my friend, Alan, even if it's only been f'r a day."

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was why Alan felt so comfortable around the blond. He was just so _sincere._ Oliver and Thomas's gestures of friendship and affection were part of some elaborate game the two were playing. Eric's comments...just felt genuine. No hidden motives at all.

They chatted a while longer, and then Eric said his goodnights, needing to get home and get some sleep before resuming work on the script the next morning. Alan stayed atop the elephant, thinking things over. Maybe an erica wasn't the right flower for him after all. Or maybe it was, and he just had to learn to see the ones blooming beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oliver Morrison appears with permission from SomebodysLight.


	8. Arias and Angels

A few days passed, and the script was coming along well. With the help of the stagehands from the Moulin, they were able to craft something well-tailored to the capabilities of the equipment available. Two flight harnesses could be run at one time, which was going to be important for the ending. They'd finally figured out what they wanted to do with it, and it was hopefully going to meet with everyone's approval. But it wasn't completely written out yet, so when Grell showed up at Eric's door with Alan in tow to see how it was coming, they had to apologetically inform her that the ending still wasn't quite prepared to be shown off.

"But Ronnie!" Grell objected. "Come now, you must have _some_ idea of how it's going to end!"

"Some idea, yeah. But not anything complete." The blond shrugged. "Don't worry, though, Miss Grell, we've got the perfect part for you to play!"

She eyed him skeptically. "Perfect, hm?"

"Oh, yes. You'll be a goddess onstage!"

Before Grell could badger him about the ending any further, Alan cut in with a small smile. "If the ending isn't finished, we'll just have to look over what is done, then," he said practically, expertly heading off Grell before she could side-track why they had come in the first place. He pulled out a chair beside Eric at the small kitchen table and reached for the stack of papers. "May I?"

"Sure!" Ronald chimed, just as Eric said brightly, "O' course!"

A second copy was procured for Grell to look over, and there was silence in the small flat as the two read through what had been written up so far. Alan set the script down after a few minutes, catching Eric's attention and pointing to a particular scene. "Right here... I really like this part."

Eric leaned over to see. It was a scene near the middle, during the part of the show where the prince was attempting to convince the angel to come to the castle with promises of a cure. In a moment of introspection, the clerk sat down to consider if he would be capable of killing one thousand people to save the one that he had come to love so dearly, especially if it meant keeping him out of the prince's hands.

"It's powerful, to see how much the choice is tearing him up," Alan said. "I think it will really help the audience connect on an emotional level."

The songwriter nodded. "We debated. Ron an' I spent f'rever on tha' scene. B'cause he really does love th' angel, an' doesn' want him t' suffer anymore."

"But a thousand people," Ronald added. "That's a lot."

"An' he could let th' prince cure th' angel, but then he'd never see him again. Th' prince wouldn' let him go."

Alan nodded. "I don't think..." He paused a moment, considering what he wanted to say. "The angel loves the clerk in return, and I don't think he would want to see the clerk become a murderer for him. He's an angel. He would be too selfless to put his life over someone else's."

"But would th' clerk listen, if he's in love an' he's desperate?"

"I would hope he would respect his love's wishes," Alan said, looking up at Eric and gesturing to the script. "Otherwise he's no better than the prince. The audience is supposed to sympathize with him."

Ronald nodded. "That's why we ended up going with him not killing people. Killing a thousand people would screw you up in the head, anyway."

Grell had continued flipping through while they chatted, and let out an excited squeal. She waved one of the last pages energetically, asking, "Is this a romantic duet?! Oh, it's so perfect!" She began to sing exaggeratedly, _"O beloved, far away now, will I see your smile again~?"_ and both Eric and Ronald cringed because it wasn't the proper tune at all.

"It's no' quite done yet. Sebastian's still workin' on th' music, an' th' lyrics need a few tweaks," the songwriter explained quickly. "Bu' there's no trill in there. Th' lines end with sustained notes." He sang a bit of the melody, wordlessly, and Alan perked up.

"So it's like..." He quickly flipped through to find the right page, skipping down to the next line. _"I wish you could see; I wanted to be your light, until the end..."_ His voice was clear and steady, matching the melody Eric had sung perfectly, and Eric nodded enthusiastically.

"Tha's it!"

Alan smiled at him, looking rather pleased at how happy Eric sounded. He started to say something, but Grell spoke before he could, chiming brightly, "Oh, Alan, an aria is perfect for your voice!" They were technically going to have 'auditions' for the parts, but everyone knew without it being said that Alan was going to play the lead role. So no one objected when Grell continued, "Oh, and the costume you're going to wear is simply _divine~_ " She giggled at her own pun, and Alan blinked before narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"What do you mean?" he asked. Nina handled all the costumes. Had Grell already spoken to her, without asking him anything?

"Oh, you're going to be wearing the most lovely angel outfit~! Draping fabric everywhere! But not too much, of course~" Grell flashed him a sharp-toothed smile, and he blanched.

"Grell, an angel wouldn't be going around dressed like a prostitute."

"Not a prostitute, darling! But the outfit can't interfere with your wings, so it has to be open in the back, at least!"

"...wings?" Alan looked interested, then, and even Eric and Ronald perked up.

Grell giggled. "Of course~ You can't be an angel without wings! Nina and Rosa were working on putting together a harness for them that won't interfere with the flight harnesses."

For a moment, it looked like Alan was still going to complain about the actual outfit he might or might not be wearing, but then he seemed to deflate a bit. "All right, all right. I will be quiet until I actually see the costume."

"'m sure it'll be fine." Eric was willing to admit to himself that Alan would probably look stunning in whatever the costume department came up with, but refused to dwell on it. "Now, Ron was workin' on narration f'r the beginnin' of th' show, t' introduce the story. Does tha' seem like a good idea?"

"Like the chorus at the beginning of _Romeo and Juliet_?!" Grell cried excitedly. She promptly returned her attention to the script, and they picked up where they had left off, checking over the story so far for any discrepancies or odd lines. It was going to take a lot of work, but the show was coming together. Slowly.

* * *

In a stately building across the city, in one of Paris's 'nicer' neighborhoods, there was an office. It was a rather plain office, neatly and classically decorated, with only one or two personal touches to mark it as belonging to anyone in particular. A small cut-crystal paperweight that had been a gift when the company reached its millionth sale sat on the corner of the polished wooden desk, and a single framed picture occupied the opposite corner. And in a corner of the room, a tall wooden perch for a bird stood, empty for the moment. Save for those three objects, it could have been the office of any company head in the city.

Duke William T. Spears sat at his desk, paperwork organized in neat piles in front of him and his pet pigeon Lewis sitting quietly on his shoulder. If anyone asked, of course, it was not a pet at all; it was a colleague, as he had trained it to carry messages for him sometimes. But that did not stop him from doting on the spoiled little bird.

"Honestly," William said, and it was up to interpretation whether he was speaking to the bird or to Lawrence, who had been called in a few minutes previously and was waiting to see what William wanted. "That company from England is looking to buy out my business again. What makes them think I would sell my most profitable venture to someone who is not even based in this country?" He wrote a reply in neat, precise handwriting, then folded it into an envelope and set it aside with the remainder of the mail to be sent out. "Anderson?"

"Yes, Duke William?" Lawrence replied, raising an eyebrow. As he was William's partner, the dark-haired man often called him in to discuss certain business matters and details of the company. He could be a good advisor as well as a good bodyguard, and at the very least he provided a listening ear and a sounding board when William was planning his endeavors. But he wasn't expecting the younger man to ask with utter seriousness, "What is your opinion on the Moulin Rouge?"

"The Moulin? A haven of sin, at the least, but it does not seem as bad as other establishments of its type." Lawrence shrugged. "If it can successfully manage the transition into more theatre-based business, it might actually stand a chance to improve its reputation. Mr. Humphries helps that impression significantly. He seems very level-headed, from what you described of him."

"He is the only worthwhile company in that rabble," William said sharply. "Places like the Moulin Rouge are a blight on this city. Nothing but mutts and vagabonds, selling themselves to fawning imbeciles." He flipped through another stack of papers critically before sorting them into one of his many piles. "I wish to have him, Lawrence. He does not enjoy the life he leads, and would do far better at my side. He has already expressed the desire to be courted, after all. I could win him easily, and remove him from that place before he becomes like the rest."

Lawrence looked skeptical. "He is already a courtesan like the others. That doesn't bother you?"

"He is the most valuable, and therefore the most exclusive," William countered. "And his dislike of his current life places him a step above the other mutts. He is quiet and well-spoken, and a lovely man." Lewis cooed quietly on his shoulder, and the duke held up a hand for the pigeon to flutter to, fetching a bit of birdseed from his desk drawer for him. "I will help the Moulin with their "show", if only as a means to eventually end up with Alan as my own."

"If that is what you think is best," Lawrence replied. The older man certainly wasn't going to disagree with the head of the company. "Should I let Cecelia know that you will not be taking your lunch hour in the office until further notice?"

William nodded. "Yes, I plan to spend time winning Alan Humphries, and while unfortunately that means spending time in that awful bordello, it will be worth it in the end. You may go, Anderson. I have work to finish if I am to actually be taking my lunch hours from now on."

The older man nodded, and headed out. After stopping to speak briefly with William's secretary, letting her know the situation, he returned to his own office. While the Moulin was a bit more brightly colored than he preferred, the performers and staff there had seemed like decent people. But the duke's fascination with Alan Humphries was rather unexpected. It wasn't Lawrence's place to question, but if the duke was determined to capture Mr. Humphries' affections, then the older man could only wish him luck. He just hoped William's nature wasn't enough to chase the courtesan away, for all of their sakes.

* * *

Backstage at the Moulin Rouge, it was a busy day in the costume department. That was nothing new; there was always something torn, outgrown, too loose, too tight, or that needed to be made for a show. Nina Hopkins was their resident mad tailor, and she was like a magician with the fabric. When her models would cooperate, at least.

"Miss Elizabeth, please be still. I cannot measure you properly if you keep squirming about!" Nina sighed, measuring tape limp in one hand for the moment as she regarded the blonde bundle of energy currently bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet with excitement.

"Lizzie!" the girl insisted. But one last bounce and she was still, though obviously barely restraining her glee.

Nina quickly held up the measuring tape, letting the other end drop to the floor. "Your growth spurt seems to have stopped. What a shame. It was such fun making you new dresses! Now I won't get to as often!"

"No, that's perfect! I'm just a little shorter than Ciel! I'll be the perfect wife for the prince in the show!" Lizzie gushed excitedly as Nina began taking the rest of her measurements.

From where she was sitting across the room, Rosa, the woman who looked after most of the dancers and courtesans, raised an eyebrow. "Dear, how do you know that the prince will have a wife? ...and how do you know Ciel will be playing the prince?"

"Because he'd be perfect for the part!" Ever since Grell had hired the theatre troupe, Lizzie had been smitten by the slate-haired boy. Ciel, from what Rosa had observed, was at best tolerant of her exuberance. But the blonde girl remained undaunted. "He'd be a perfect prince!"

Neither woman had the heart to tell Lizzie that the prince was the villain of the story. The employees of the Moulin had been hearing little tidbits of the plot here and there, but nothing to give them any sense of what the complete story would be in the end. Nina wrapped up her measuring tape and scurried over to take notes on Lizzie's new measurements. "You're all finished, Miss Elizabeth! Hopefully you do get a good part in the show; I'll make you a fantastic costume!"

Before Lizzie could respond, there was the faint sound of bickering from outside of the costume studio. It got louder and louder until the door opened and Alan was shoved unceremoniously inside. There was a brief glimpse of bright red hair before the door was pulled closed behind him.

"Hi, Alan!" Lizzie chimed.

"Alan, dear, how are you?" Rosa asked, choosing not to inquire about what he and Grell had been bickering about this time.

"Hello, Lizzie. Hello, Rosa. I would be better if Grell didn't have to bodily drag me places," Alan sighed, smiling helplessly. "She apparently wants me to look at the sketch for my costume."

Nina grinned broadly. "Oh, yes! You'll love it!" She fetched a large sheet of sketch paper and spread it out on the worktable, beckoning Alan over. "What do you think? Perfect, right?" She was practically puffed up with pride, and the brunet walked over to see what exactly the design was, that she would be so excited about it.

The first impression that Alan got was that he liked the shoes. The base looked like a regular dance shoe, certainly more comfortable than the faux-glass ones from a few nights ago. But they were styled to look more like a Greek-like sandal, with straps that wound around his calves, and the whole thing done in what appeared to be light-bronze leather. That was the only thing that was appealing about the costume, however. The rest was a halter-style tunic of some kind of white fabric, possibly linen. It ended only halfway down his thighs, and his entire back was left bare, all the way down past the small of his back. The fabric would be just barely high enough to keep from flashing his arse to the audience. "Miss Hopkins, I really don't think this is the best idea..."

"Of course it is! Ms. Sutcliffe helped with the design!"

"That's what I was afraid of. Is there a reason it's so short? And dips so low in the back?"

"Ms. Sutcliffe said that the shortness would be appealing to the audience. And you have gorgeous legs, Alan, you ought to show them off more," Nina said insistently.

"And it's so low in the back because it can't interfere with the wing harness or the flight harness," Rosa explained. "I had to take into account where the flight harness belt would go around your hips."

Alan smiled, already planning his negotiation. Nina liked him; he was just feminine enough to suit her artistic tastes, which usually bothered him, but now he could play it to his advantage. The explanation for the back was fair enough, but as for the length... " _I'd_ prefer the hem a few inches longer, if you could. No one would notice the difference. I won't complain about how low the back dips if you make it a little longer," he entreated Nina.

"I don't usually compromise on my designs, Mr. Humphries," the seamstress huffed.

"An angel, though, Miss Hopkins. They are the last beings to wear something so scandalously short. Save your scandal for designing the demon's costume."

"But wouldn't that be more interesting to the audience? An angel dressed in something a bit more forbidden? You're already a temptation. You've got a lovely complexion... Very fitting for wearing white. It doesn't wash you out."

Alan attempted a pleading, puppy-dog look. "But it wouldn't suit the character at all. This angel is very determined to keep to as many of Heaven's edicts as he can, even while sick."

The look was working. Nina pursed her lips, thinking it over. "I suppose I could make it a bit longer..."

"That would be wonderful, Miss Hopkins. Thank you." And he looked so sincerely grateful that Nina waved him off with a smile.

"Oh, be quiet, Alan," she replied, grinning and walking over to pick up an elaborate-looking construct of belts and long lengths of wood slotted together. "Rosa, come help me put this on him."

The other woman got up to come help maneuver everything, and together they got Alan into the complicated harness. Straps ran around his chest and waist, and up over his shoulders, made of a nude-colored fabric to match his skin where the tunic wouldn't cover. The wooden frameworks rose up behind him from where they attached at his shoulder-blades, just the skeletons of what would eventually be fluffy white angel wings. Nina looked him over critically for a moment, then instructed, "Hook your thumbs through those loops of cord, there." She pointed at two loops near the bottom strap of the harness, and Alan obeyed. "Now, raise your arms."

Alan looked curious, lifting his arms over his head and grinning in surprised delight when he saw the wing framework spread open as he moved and pulled the cords. "That's incredible!"

Lizzie clapped and cheered. "Alan, you're going to be such a cute angel!"

Checking over all of the joints to make sure that they moved properly, Nina explained, "The skeleton will be covered by a thin, sheer fabric, and the feathers will be stitched to that. They shouldn't end up very heavy at all."

"No, really, Nina, these are brilliant," Alan said, playing with the cords and watching the wings extend and collapse. "I can't wait to see when they're finished."

"I can't either, Mr. Humphries. I believe Miss Elizabeth is correct; you'll make a gorgeous angel!" The seamstress clapped him on the shoulder, grinning, and he couldn't help but smile back. The costume wasn't nearly as bad as Grell had made it seem that morning. And the wings seemed like they were going to be a lot of fun.

Now he was actually looking forward to the casting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if anyone can figure out ahead of time what I'm using for the aria. With some modified lyrics, of course, but... ;P


	9. Casting Call

It took about a week to finish the script and find the time to let everyone who wanted to audition for a part step up to try their hand at reading. Ronald and Eric spent many afternoons sitting in one of the private rooms of the Moulin, watching people try for the parts they wanted. For the most part, being a building full of performers, everyone did well. There were a few duds, and a few people that Eric asked to read a different part than the one they first tried for, and one girl who attempted the angel's aria and over-sang it horribly. Then there was the girl who waited until Eric had to leave the room and offered Ronald a blowjob in exchange for a good part. 

"What are you doing?!" the younger blond had yelped when she ended up on her knees in front of him.

"You can give me one of the main roles, can't you?" the girl had asked, absolutely shameless with her hand on Ronald's thigh. "I can make it worth your while..."

Ronald had flailed, and while normally he'd never turn down attention from a pretty girl, it was past his boundaries to trade a blowjob for a favor. He'd told her to go, and if she wanted to properly audition, she could come back later.

When Eric returned the two of them agreed that it wasn't strange, for this place, to imagine that someone would try that. The only strange part was that no one had tried sooner.

But decisions were made and parts were assigned one by one, and Eric and Ronald agonized over each casting choice, other than the main role and Grell's part. Alan had come in as a formality and nailed the aria, so there was no way that they could not cast him as the angel. The other parts, however, were mostly up in the air.

"So Ciel and Alois both auditioned to be the prince," Ronald said, flipping through their notes.

"Both of 'em could pull it off, too," Eric chuckled. "But really, I'd pick Ciel. He's got that whole "cold an' emotionless" thin' goin' f'r him. Alois is too cheery t'be an imposin' villain."

"Are we letting Sebastian play the demon, then? Those two are a hell of a pair when they get going. They feed off each other really well."

Eric nodded. "Why not? An' he's a good contrast t' Alan. Tall an' imposin', as opposed t' shorter an' cute."

"Cute?" Ronald raised an eyebrow. "Alan's cute?" Of course Alan was cute; that was half of his appeal to a lot of his clients. But the blond had never expected to hear Eric describe him as such. "Don't tell me you fancy Alan."

Swatting at Ronald, Eric said flatly, "He's a good guy. Just because I see 'im as a friend doesn' mean I 'fancy' him."

"Sure, whatever you say," Ronald laughed, dodging Eric's swats. "Probably a good thing you don't, since he's got that thing with the duke..."

"Righ'." And if the older man's smile slipped just a bit, it was _clearly_ just because they had to go back to actually working. "Anyway, so we've got th' clerk an' th' angel..."

"And Miss Grell's part," Ronald chimed in.

Eric nodded. "Th' prince an' th' demon... Only a few minor parts left t' assign, then."

Ronald flipped through the copious notes they had taken. "Sieglinde and Joanne both did a good job, and they look enough alike that they could pull off the dying person and the soul in the beginning. Hats'll make it so it doesn't matter that their hair isn't the same color, and they've both got baby faces, so it'll work."

"Joanne's not th' one tha' tried t' give ya a blowjob f'r a part, is he?"

"No, no, that was a girl. With curly hair, hang on, um..." The younger racked his brains. "This place is too big; it's impossible to remember everyone's name! I'd know her if I saw her, though."

"If y'say so." Eric shrugged, snagging the stack of notes. "An' th' best dancer we had audition was Sascha, righ'? So they get th' main dancin' part."

Ronald nodded. "That sounds like all the actual parts. So now we just need to get the background dancers and singers in order."

They settled down to work, organizing names into lists and assigning scenes and groups. After another hour or so, everything was settled, and a week's worth of listening to auditions and agonizing over decisions came to an end. Eric gathered up the box that contained the scripts for the people with speaking roles, and Ronald went to find Grell so that they could make the announcements. It was time to get things started.

* * *

It didn't take long, with Grell in charge, to gather up the employees of the Moulin for the casting announcements. People assembled eagerly on the main floor, forming a crowd before the two writers sitting on the edge of the stage. While Eric looked a bit awkward at being the center of attention, Ronald drank it in, smiling and waving to several of the girls, including the redhead Eric remembered him dancing with on his first night in the Moulin.

Duke William, as patron of the show, was also there, having been permitted to stay when the rest of the afternoon's clients had been shooed out. He sat at a table to one side with Lawrence, watching the proceedings with something resembling distaste as the assorted scantily-clad entertainers filled the floor.

"All righ', all righ', settle down," Eric finally called over the excited chatter. Everyone quieted almost immediately, and he looked down at the list he and Ronald had made. "S'ppose we better start with th' main roles, huh? So, playin' th' role o' th' angel...Alan Humphries." This surprised exactly no one, and Alan simply nodded politely. "All righ', an' playin' th' clerk is going t' be Asmodeus Amaryllis."

The violet-haired courtesan bounced eagerly, an excited grin on his face, and Grell nodded her approval. The two's closeness would definitely get across the chemistry between the characters onstage. Ronald scurried around, handing out scripts to everyone as Eric announced that Ciel and Sebastian would be playing the prince and the demon, respectively, and then the songwriter grinned roguishly at Grell.

"Now then. Believe Ronnie promised ya y'd be a goddess onstage?" He waved his list. "Y'll be playin' th' Goddess o' Death f'r th' finale."

Grell gasped, a delighted smile on her face, already imagining the fabulous costumes and dramatic entrances that could go with such a role.

"No one could play her like you could!" Ronald chimed, offering her one of the script copies.

The queen of the Moulin took it with a flourish. "No one's going to." A goddess? That was a part _made_ for her! She eagerly mimicked the others who had already received their scripts, flipping through to find the ending that they hadn't heard anything about yet. When she actually began reading, she shrieked. "Oh, you two, this is so perfectly romantic!"

At the story's climax, the clerk arrived at the castle, desperate to see the angel, not understanding why the other would leave him so suddenly. He didn't know about the prince summoning a demon, and didn't understand that the angel was trying to keep him safe. The angel didn't have long to live anyway, and would rather the clerk not be sad when he died. But, the angel began singing an aria, expressing his love for the clerk and his wishes that he could be with his love, and the clerk overheard it. They sang together, a duet reaffirming their love for each other, and the angel decided to flee the castle with the clerk, so that they could be together for what time they had left.

They fled with the demon in pursuit, and when the demon caught up, the clerk took a mortal blow to save the angel. But before the demon could consume the clerk's soul or kill the angel, the Goddess of Death descended in a grand entrance. The clerk giving his life for the angel was an act of love that made his soul pure enough to cure the Thorns on its own. The Goddess confirmed that the angel's disease was healed, banished the demon, and brought back the clerk as an angel as well, to live together as immortals forever.

Ronald passed out the remaining scripts quickly, as Eric read off the rest of the parts of the cast. Sieglinde and Joanne and Sascha smiled happily as they heard their names, and Lizzie squealed and ran over to hug Ciel, since she'd gotten her dream part playing the prince's wife, even if she didn't have many lines. Alois and Claude were cast as castle guards, and a man called Bard played the owner of the business where the clerk worked. And, though Eric was positive it was bias on Ronald's part, the pretty redhead that the younger writer had been flirting with for the past week had a brief speaking part, as one of the townspeople. Mei, her name was, or something like that.

The Duke, who'd been given a copy of the script as well, read the planned ending and rolled his eyes. Foolish romantic nonsense. But that was what most people would pay to come and see: a ridiculous love story with a happy ending. Honestly. There were other, far more realistic ways to end something like this. But he would hold his tongue. It didn't matter, so long as the show was a success. This theatre of mutts would be on its way to becoming something respectable, and Alan Humphries, by that point, would be his.

"What do you think, Duke William?" Lawrence asked. He flipped through the script after the duke set it down, raising an eyebrow at the clear deus ex machina of the ending.

"I think it is a frivolous tale and rather pointless," William sighed. "But it will appeal to the sort that frequent a place like this, and if the show is a success my investment will not be a waste of time." Let them have their romantic, idealistic show. So long as everything went according to plan, there would be no issues.

* * *

There was actually silence for once in the Moulin as everyone read through the scripts eagerly, occasionally nudging each other and whispering, pointing out lines or stage directions they found particularly interesting. It was not a complex play, really. The most complicated scenes would be the dance routines, and Rosa was handling those.

Sascha came over, carrying their script. "Ronald...? Uh...Eric?" they asked, trying to get their attention.

"Hey, Sasch, what's up?" Ronald replied with a smile, waving them to sit with the two writers on the stairs, where they were keeping an eye on things.

They settled a few steps down from them, holding up the script. "I don't get what my part is. It just doesn't seem to fit 'da rest of 'da show when I'm just reading it." 

Their part was a dancer, dressed all in black with no lines, who appeared primarily in only one scene. Sascha's ballet skills had been the best out of the people who auditioned, and the little dancer had exactly the sort of fey looks Eric and Ronald were going for. Eric scooted over to look at the script, and smiled sheepishly. "It's sort of a metaphor thing. Th' clerk gets his scene where 'e agonizes over th' Thorns an' whether 'r not he could kill people t' save th' angel, an' so this is th' angel's scene where he thinks over his situation an' how he feels about bein' sick. So y're th' personification o' th' Thorns."

"That's why you show up in the background a few more times. Just as a sort of reminder that the Thorns are always there, even when there are other problems," Ronald added.

"Oooh... 'Dat's why I don't respond to anything he says. I'm not real..." Sascha said, comprehension dawning. "Danke, 'dat makes much more sense now." They got up, smiling. "I'm going to go ask Nina about 'da costume, 'den. Thanks again!"

As they headed back down the stairs, someone called for Ronald, and he waved to Eric before heading off to see what the question was. Eric leaned against the railing, watching Grell gushing over something in the script to Undertaker, before a quiet voice pulled him away from his observation.

"Eric?"

The songwriter glanced up as Alan sat down on the stairs a polite distance away. "Hey, Alan." Last he'd seen the brunet, Alan had been listening to Asmodeus chatter excitedly at him, presumably about getting one of the leading parts. "Got a question?"

"Not really." Alan shrugged, a small smile on his face. "I wanted to tell you I like the ending. They get to be together, but no one has to die for it. It's optimistic."

"Well, technic'ly th' clerk has t' die, but he gets brought back anyway," Eric chuckled. "But nah, killin' innocent people was somethin' we didn' want t' have th' heroes o' th' story doin'. It could've gone that direction, though. People'll do a surprisin' lot t' save someone they love."

Alan nodded. "Love is a powerful thing."

Eric glanced at him, but he was looking out over the crowd. He remembered the night on the elephant; Alan had said he wanted to escape. He wanted a home, a garden...but he hadn't said anything about love. "Seems like, in a place like this, love'd be hard t' find."

"It's impossible," Alan sighed. "I don't even bother. There's no love when someone is paying for your company." He finally shifted to look up at Eric. "I don't need love. It would be nice, of course...but I can't pin my hopes on that."

"Hey, adorable li'l thin' like you? Someone'll fall f'r ya. M'be they already have," Eric teased, not really thinking about what he was saying. Almost immediately afterwards, he mentally cringed. Way to act like an idiot with a crush. He did _not_ have a crush on Alan Humphries. And even if he did, the courtesan wouldn't want _him._

Alan rolled his eyes. "I don't think so. If they have, they're not very obvious about it. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I liked the ending. Thank you." He walked back down to the main floor with light steps, and Eric resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. Oi. He liked Alan; he didn't want to drive him off by making stupid jokes about his love life. Or lack of one. Hopefully the brunet wasn't too offended. Eric had just wanted to see if he could make him smile, after all.

* * *

Alan, meanwhile, made his way towards the Duke's table, sighing. Someone would fall for him? Right. Countless people professed to have 'fallen' for him over the years. He had learned early on that their confessions of love meant nothing. Every last one had been lust and nothing more. He knew by now how to act as clients wanted; he could play them like fiddles, and it always gave them the feeling that they had some sort of power over him, that they had earned his affection or admiration. But honestly, they were all the same. Idiots who couldn’t tell the difference between feigned and genuine affection. And it didn’t matter, because they didn’t love him anyway. They stayed on as regulars and he put on a smile and an act for an appointment at a time, or they faded away and he never had to worry about them again. But no one wanted to know him as a person. They wanted the Star Sapphire of the Moulin Rouge, not Alan Humphries.

Even Duke William obviously just wanted to sleep with him. It wouldn't have been so hard to talk him out of it that first night, otherwise. But they needed the Duke's patronage for the show to be a success. Costumes and sets cost money, not to mention fewer clients because they needed time to rehearse. This would ensure no one would go without in the interim. And Alan needed the Duke as well.

It was a shame. He did like Eric; the other man seemed like a good friend. But the Duke could be the one to finally help him get out of here. He'd convince him, some way or another, and maybe with the help that the businessman could provide, he'd have the chance to move to the home he'd always dreamed of.

So it didn't bother him as he settled next to William, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and felt nothing. This wasn't about love, or even fondness. This was about ensuring that the show succeeded, and that he would be in the Duke's good graces in the future.

Whatever he had to do, to ensure that everything worked out.


	10. Wings

People almost immediately fell to memorizing their lines in-between their usual work. A few days were set aside to let the different performers become familiar with their parts, and in the meantime, the technical aspects were tested. Trapdoors were oiled and ladders were stabilized, and the flight harnesses were pulled out and set up. 

The movement of the people wearing the harnesses was controlled by someone working backstage using a system of winches and pulleys. Unfortunately, the system hadn't been used for much other than raising and lowering the swing in ages, and the only person who knew how to properly control the actual flight mechanics had left the Moulin at least a year ago. So they grabbed Ollie, who was the first person to wander by who wasn't doing something, and stuck him on the controls just to test everything out.

"You'll do fine!" Ronald chimed as Nina and Rosa helped Alan into the finished wing harness. The feathery wings looked just like they were sprouting from his shoulder-blades, even though for now he was just wearing it over his plain shirt. "Just fuss around with the levers a bit. You won't have to do it for the show or anything. We just want to test things."

"All right..." Ollie looked down at the levers and buttons dubiously, but nodded.

Eric, meanwhile, was finishing up running through one of the songs with Lizzie and a small group of girls playing servants in the prince's household. Ronald had said musical, and he had gone all out. Even the prince's wife got a brief song. But when he saw that they were almost done setting up the harnesses, he excused himself to go see if everything was going smoothly.

"Everything seems fine so far," Alan said, tightening the harness belts around his legs. The belt around his waist fit neatly below the wing harness straps, so nothing interfered there, and the cords ran on the outside of the wings, so that he could lean forward without them getting caught. "I think we're ready to test it out."

Rosa and Nina retreated down to the floor to watch, and most of the other performers scattered around the room looked up curiously as well. Eric called loud enough to be heard behind the curtain, "All righ', take 'im up, Ollie!" and watched with a grin as Alan rose slowly into the air.

The brunet was smiling, obviously enjoying himself, and they ran through a few basic ascents and descents, as well as back-and-forth movements across the stage. Once they'd chosen someone to handle all of it during the show, that person would have to learn all the musical cues and such, but for now it was enough to test that everything was working and moving properly. Alan handled all of it gracefully, and Eric couldn't stop the smile on his own face as he watched. Their angel looked perfect, even out of costume. He was the perfect choice for the part, whether he was the Star of the Moulin or not. This just proved it.

Once they'd checked all the directional stuff, Ollie brought him to a stop near the middle of the stage, about eight feet up. Eric walked over to look up at him, still grinning.

"How does everythin' feel?" the blond asked. "Not too much trouble t' keep upright 'r anythin'?"

Alan shook his head. "The wings make it a little difficult. I have to focus so I don't overbalance, because I'm a little top-heavy. But other than that, the harnesses feel fine. Nothing's caught or chafing or anything." He visibly relaxed and promptly started to tip forward, just a bit, demonstrating what he'd been saying. "See?" he said, as he drifted towards horizontal. "It's not too hard to keep upright, but it's just as easy to fall forward, and I don't think I can get back up on my own without any momentum."

Eric chuckled. "Try, at least, an' make sure." He watched as the courtesan kicked his feet ineffectively for a few moments, and waved him to stop. "All righ', all righ', I get it. Le's bring ya down." He turned and called backstage, "All righ', bring 'im down! We're done!"

Behind the scenes, Ollie started manipulating the winches to bring Alan back down to the stage. Eric reached up for him as he descended, prepared to help him get himself pointed back towards the floor again. "S'pose we should do 'Deus next, since he's gonna have t' wear one o' these f'r th' endin'..."

"Oh, he'll have way too much fun. I can already tell," Alan said, smiling. It was fantastic, the feeling of soaring over the stage. It was a shame they didn't use these more, really.

Eric was about to reply, when Alan abruptly dropped a few inches. The fall put him face-level with Eric, and their lips crashed together before either could react. It was messy and awkward; their noses bumped and teeth clicked together and Alan tried desperately to stabilize himself with hands on Eric's shoulders. Eric's own hands came up to hold onto him in return, and somewhere in Alan's mind, he took note of how strong Eric was.

"Sorry, sorry!" Ollie shouted. "I elbowed the lever by mistake!"

But neither songwriter nor courtesan was paying attention. Alan braced his hands and pushed back, looking stunned. He'd kissed Eric. Could that even count as a kiss? Their lips had been together for at least a few seconds... "S-Sorry... I wasn't expecting to drop like that..." As his feet hit the floor, he took a step back.

"No, 's all righ'... No harm done..." Eric said, looking uncertain. "Uh, d'ya need help gettin' out o' that?" He lifted a hand as if to reach for the wires, and Alan immediately began trying to get himself out of the harnesses.

"I'm fine, I'm fine..." As soon as he spoke he managed to get the wire for the flight harness hung on one of the wings. Eric rolled his eyes, stepping forward and helping him detangle it. Alan held very still, letting him get everything unhooked before shrugging off the flight harness and offering a tentative smile. "Thank you... Um... I'll go find 'Deus, so he can get his turn with the harness. And, uh, probably should get these wings off. I'll see you later..." And before Eric could say anything else, he hurried away, trying to keep how very awkward he felt from showing in his expression.

* * *

Eric set about straightening out all of the straps of the harness, mind a whirl. That had been an accident. Had he really made Alan that uncomfortable? The brunet had looked really flustered when he walked away. Why hadn't he reacted quicker? He could have stepped back and none of this would have happened.

Not that kissing Alan had been bad. It had actually been nice, other than banging their noses together. Alan had soft lips, and if he had the chance to try again when the other man wasn't falling on top of him...

_What are you saying?_ he chastised himself. _Alan's probably got much higher standards than the broke songwriter who just joined the crew. He's got a duke vying for his attention, after all. Why would he want you?_

At this rate, he was going to be forced to admit that he did have a crush on the Moulin's Star Sapphire. But they had a show to do. He couldn't go around acting like a lovesick fool.

"Hey!" Asmodeus jogged over, grinning. "Alan said you were looking for me?" He came to a stop, eyeing the harness and bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet.

"Yeah," Eric replied, returning the smile. "Thought we'd get everyone t' go ahead an' see how th' harnesses feel. Nina's doin' somethin' different with yer wings an' they're not done yet, but y'can at least get a feel f'r bein' up there."

The older courtesan gleefully started putting on all of the assorted belts and straps. "Oh, this is going to be great! We haven't used these since...like, a year or two after I got here. It's been a while!" He tightened the first leg strap, and glanced up at Eric. "Was Alan okay being up there? He looked kind of perturbed when I ran into him..."

"Oh, no, tha' was my fault..." Eric mumbled, holding the wire out of the way while Asmodeus got the other strap.

"Your fault?"

"Sort of accident'ly kissed 'im. It was a mite awkward..."

Asmodeus paused. He gave the strap a final tug, then straightened up to look Eric in the eye. "...you did what?"

"It was an accident!" Eric protested, remembering that the violet-haired man was protective of Alan. "Ollie was bringin' down th' harness so we could get 'im out of it, an' dropped 'im too fast. He sort o' landed on m'face."

"Hm..." Asmodeus looked suspicious, but let it go for the moment, instead saying, "Well, to be fair, he's probably just embarrassed, then. He doesn't really kiss clients unless they specifically ask."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You'd be surprised how gross some of these people can be. Even the rich ones." Asmodeus laughed. "I got a guy one time, I would swear up and down he'd been eating raw garlic before he showed up. That was a heck of an appointment to try to get through. He could have knocked someone out with that breath."

Eric laughed too. "Oh, geeze. Some people."

Stepping back, all the wires and straps in place, Asmodeus gave him a thumbs up. "Alan just needs a bit to get past being embarrassed about it. He'll be fine tomorrow, if not tonight. I'm sure."

The songwriter nodded, calling to Ollie to run through all the movements again. Asmodeus had a blast, swooping around as dramatically as he could manage and lamenting the fact that he didn't get to swoop around in the actual show. Then they called Sebastian and made sure he was comfortable doing the harness as well. No one else fell on Eric, and Alan eventually returned to the floor, though he didn't speak to Eric. Instead he went to work on lines with Ciel. But Eric wasn't worried. Surely Asmodeus knew what he was talking about. Alan would be fine.

* * *

Nights were more difficult than days, Alan decided, especially when he didn't have a client. It was easy enough to distract himself during the day with reading through the script and practicing the aria and arguing with Grell about the change to the hem length on his costume. Thankfully with Rosa backing him up the change stayed, but now that everything was done and he was clientless for the evening, he had far too much time to think.

Specifically, think about Eric Slingby.

It had barely been a kiss. But for some reason here he was, still thinking about it hours later. He couldn't deny that Eric was attractive. And kind. And...Alan had felt something. For the first time in ages he'd actually felt something when his lips connected with another person's. And _maybe_ he'd sort of wanted to kiss the songwriter again to see if a proper kiss would be better than the awkward crashing of mouths they'd experienced. Just out of curiosity.

But that was all it was. Curiosity, and maybe a little bit of infatuation.

"It's just an infatuation because he's nice. That happened all the time when you started until you realized their flattery didn't mean anything," Alan berated himself, sitting down on the end of his bed. He'd had a crush on Thomas once, after all. The older man was charming and complimentary, and Alan had eaten it up before he'd realized that Thomas's ego was the size of a small solar system, and whether he meant the compliments or not, there was no seriousness behind his supposed affection.

_But Eric's not like that. He doesn't try to flatter you or anything._

"Eric is my _friend_. Like 'Deus. Like Rosa and Nina and Lizzie and Ronald," the courtesan insisted, determined to argue with that stubborn corner of his brain. "Eric is not different from them."

_Except he is._

"I'm supposed to be keeping the _Duke's_ attention. We need his patronage." This show had to be a success if the Moulin was going to remain as high-quality as it was now. Alan considered himself lucky to not have gotten stuck in a less-glamorous brothel. It would have been far more awful than this. So all he had to do was pretend to be enamored with Duke William until the show, and everything would be fine. He'd done it before, although...maybe it would be worth it to continue that this time. Staying with the Duke would mean the potential for financial security, a nice place to live...a garden. The man was obviously smitten with him. How far could that extend?

_No._

That wouldn't be any better than being here. There was no light in a life like that. He'd be secure, but he'd still be some pretty pet, locked up with a man he didn't care for. No, he'd take this to the show and no farther, and if the show worked out as well as they were saying it would, that would be it. He would get out of here, and he wouldn't take any more lovers. He'd make his own happiness.

As if in direct contradiction to that thought, that stubborn corner of his brain chose that moment to summon up an image of Eric Slingby, grinning up at him from the stage. Alan buried his face in his hands, frustrated at this point. Even if he had a crush, it didn't mean the blond liked him in return. It had to be strange for Eric, working among prostitutes, and Alan was the star product the Moulin had to offer. He was the most coveted, the most known, the most public. Why would anyone want that who wasn't paying for it? Who would fall for someone famous for being a whore?

Clearly he needed to go confront Eric. Yes, if they could just talk about the...incident, the one that was definitely not a kiss, maybe Alan could get some proper sleep and stop thinking in circles. He could confirm it didn't mean anything and move on.

Throwing on a long coat over his flannel pajamas and locating some shoes, he set off down the mostly-quiet halls of the Moulin, determined to get this thing settled once and for all.

* * *

He marched out of the Moulin, across the street, up four flights of stairs, and then stopped in front of Eric's door and stared awkwardly. What would the other man think, him just turning up out of the blue like this? Maybe Eric had already forgotten about this afternoon. But he'd come all the way here, and he needed confirmation, so he steeled his nerves and knocked.

Eric came to the door looking rather sleepy, and only looked more confused as he realized who exactly was on his doorstep. "Alan? What're ya doin' here? Is somethin' wrong?" His gaze drifted down to the violet pants, and he added, "Did y'come over in yer pajamas?"

"Yes." Alan swallowed hard. "I...wanted to talk to you. About earlier."

The songwriter raised an eyebrow, but stepped aside to let him into the little flat. Alan took the invitation, walking in and shrugging his coat off. He laid it over his arm and looked around, determined to look anywhere but at Eric. But he still jumped a bit when Eric said, sounding puzzled, "So, what did ya want t' talk abou'?"

Alan bit his lip. "The...um...kiss. Well, it wasn't really a kiss, but..." He turned around and practically jumped out of his skin because Eric was right behind him.

Eric waved his hands apologetically. "Sorry, sorry, was gonna ask if I could take yer coat."

"Oh... Uh, sure..." Alan handed it over, and the blond walked over to hang it neatly over the bedpost.

"Jumpy li'l thing, aren't ya?" he chuckled, turning back to Alan and folding his arms. "So, not-a-kiss, righ'? What about it?" Never mind that he was as uncomfortable as Alan, he was just hiding it better. The courtesan had probably shown up to tell him that it meant nothing; that he wasn't interested in a broke songwriter.

Alan, meanwhile, had gone back to staring at the floor. "It... It didn't mean anything? Right?"

"Was jus' an accident," Eric confirmed. "I mean, y'landed on m'face. There was a pretty high chance some part o' ya was gonna smash int' m' mouth."

"Yeah..." But for some reason it bothered him, to think that that was all it was. He'd been kissed before, by clients, by friends... Being friends with someone as affectionate as Asmodeus basically guaranteed a peck or two every once in a while. This was still different, though. If Eric considered it just an accident, however, maybe it was for the best. "I mean, I'm supposed to...with the Duke...and..."

Eric blinked. "Righ'...th' Duke..." he mumbled. "I suppose tha's righ'... Someone like you deserves a noble..."

"Besides..." Alan said quietly, "I'm just a courtesan."

"Y'wouldn' want a broke writer..."

"You wouldn't want someone like me..."

Both of them stopped speaking at the same time and stared at each other. Eric finally broke the silence, asking, "What d'ya mean, someone like you?"

Alan gestured to himself absently. "I'm a prostitute. Why would anyone want me who's not paying for me? I'm used goods."

"Don' sell yerself short like tha'. Yer brilliant," Eric countered. "Yer funny an' sweet an' a good friend an' I certainly wouldn' mind th' chance t' kiss ya again." The instant the words were out of his mouth he looked startled, as if he hadn't meant to say them, and he turned towards the kitchenette, going over to grab a pair of mugs out of the cabinet. "D'ya want some hot choc'late?"

"Y-Yes?" Alan was still reeling from what the songwriter had said. Eric wanted to kiss him again? Eric liked him? Was that what the other was saying? He fumbled for a moment, practically itching to ask for clarification, but then blurted instead, "S-So...why did you come to France?"

Eric shrugged. The abrupt change of topic was jarring, but considering that their previous conversation was sort of terrifying and unbelievably awkward, he was willing to go with it. "Wanted t'be a songwriter. This seemed like th' place, all these artists an' Bohemians runnin' around. An' it wasn' like it'd be too much of a shock. M'family moved fr'm Scotland t' England when I was fifteen, so m' used t' jumpin' countries." Still facing the counter, rummaging for the milk, he waved Alan towards the couch. "Go on, sit. Jus' gotta heat this up."

"That explains the accent..." Alan said, the tiniest hint of a smile quirking his lips.

"Yeah, never bother'd t' try t' unlearn it."

The courtesan took a seat on the worn couch, leaning over the back to watch Eric prepare the drinks. "I moved here from England too. Quite a while ago, now. I wanted to be a singer." He laughed, bitterly. "Unfortunately, bills happened, and I hadn't made enough to cover them. Grell took me in when my landlord threw me out and 'Deus helped me learn the ropes, and I've been at the Moulin ever since."

"'Deus does seem awfully protective of ya," Eric said, stirring the milk in his small saucepan before beginning to dole it into the mugs. "Got all bent outta shape f'r a moment this afternoon when I mentioned accidentally bumpin' noses with y'."

"He's been like that forever," Alan said, grateful that Eric didn't refer to it as a kiss. "He saved my life back when I first started working here. A client almost beat me to death, but he stepped in. He's my best friend." He accepted the mug of hot chocolate Eric offered, and scooted over a bit as the larger man claimed the other end of the couch and took a drink of his own mug. Alan took a sip and hummed appreciatively. "This is really good."

Eric smiled. "Thanks."

There was quiet for a while, as both drank their hot chocolate and thought things over. But surprisingly, it wasn't an uncomfortable silence, and Alan was strangely reluctant to leave when the clock chimed eleven and he realized he probably needed to get back to the Moulin and finish getting ready for bed. He stared down into his empty mug and mumbled, "I should go..."

"'s gettin' late..." Eric agreed, taking Alan's mug and his own and going over to put them in the sink. He returned with Alan's coat, offering it to him. "It was...nice. Havin' ya over."

"Yeah..." Alan shrugged the coat on, feeling slightly self-conscious. "It was..."

"Maybe we can do this again sometime." Eric managed a smile, looking like he didn't know what to do with his hands. It was so endearingly awkward, and Alan mentally shook his head.

_You want to. Just...do it!_

Before he could talk himself out of it, he let curiosity win and leaned up and pressed his lips to Eric's. Eric was warm and his stubble was scratchy and he flailed for a moment before his hands settled on Alan's hips and Alan was actually enjoying kissing someone for the first time in years.

_Shit._

It was just a simple press of lips, and when Alan pulled away he pressed his forehead to Eric's shoulder and made a frustrated sound. Eric blinked, looking worried, and asked tentatively, "Are ya...all righ'?"

"This... I... I _can't,_ " Alan said exasperatedly. "I can't like you, not like this, the Duke and the show and..."

Wait, _what?_ Eric's eyes widened, and he blinked down at the top of Alan's head, stunned. Alan might have feelings for him? How had someone like him ever earned the brunet's affections? He resisted the urge to grab Alan by the shoulders and push him back to search his expression, instead patting him on the back as comfortingly as he could manage. "'ey, 's not like I don' like ya back," he replied, trying to be casual and not sound as overwhelmed as he felt. "Since tha' night we were up on th' elephant, actually."

"That's part of the problem!" Alan cried. "I could handle this if it was just you, or just me, but this? My only relationships have been with people I pretend to like for money. How would this even _work?"_

Eric raised an eyebrow. "But ya do like me?" The courtesan nodded miserably, and Eric nodded. "Well, then, we'll jus' have t' figure it out as we go. We can at leas' try."

"But the Duke..."

"Don' worry about th' Duke. We'll figure that out when we get there." The songwriter leaned down and kissed him again, just a peck, and ruffled his hair. "Go on home, we'll worry abou' all o' it t'morrow."

Alan nodded, still looking worried. But he let Eric walk him to the door and give him a hug before he headed back out into the October evening. And as he walked back to the Moulin, he thought about how different Eric was than anyone who had ever paid him attention. Eric had had him alone, no one had known where he was, and the blond man hadn't made a single move to try to seduce him or be anything other than kind and genuine. Alan wasn't used to people being genuine around him. But he was willing to give Eric a chance, and maybe, just maybe, the other would turn out to be as good as he seemed.


	11. Kisses Behind the Curtain

A few days of rehearsal passed, and there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between the courtesan and the songwriter. They would take things slow, see where things went, and absolutely not tell a soul what was happening. Not even a hint. At that point, Alan was still meant to be keeping the Duke's attention, and the show was riding on the nobleman's financial backing. It was dangerous to consider a relationship while Duke William was still around.

But they continued to share chaste kisses in stolen moments when no one was looking, and it felt more and more natural as the days passed to be affectionate to each other. When they were in private, Alan didn't hesitate anymore to lean up and press a kiss to Eric's cheek or lips, and he wondered to himself if this was how his overly-affectionate bodyguard felt all the time. Asmodeus had no problems with hugs or any other form of affection around people, and it showed. Maybe it was finally rubbing off on Alan.

Or maybe not, because the Duke was still a challenge. The courtesan sat with him up on the private balcony near the stage, watching Eric coaching Asmodeus through some of the clerk's parts as Rudgar, the Moulin's piano-player, provided the melody. They were working on Asmodeus's part of the aria, and his voice drifted up to the balcony as he ran through the bit he sang solo.

_"Through hours of despair, I offer this prayer..."_

Alan turned to look at William, offering a smile. "I think they made an excellent choice, picking 'Deus as the other lead. Don't you agree, Duke William?" This man had proven to be terribly difficult to have a conversation with. They didn't agree on many points involving the Moulin, and Alan didn't know enough about business to be able to hold up his end of any conversations about that.

The Duke raised an eyebrow. "He does seem to have the sort of exuberance suitable for such a foolishly optimistic character. But," and he glanced at Alan evenly, "considering the clerk's purpose is to save the one he wants so desperately, it is understandable that he would be optimistic. I would do much in order to keep the things I care about, after all." His business, his good standing in society... They meant a great deal to him. Possibly even the attractive young man sitting beside him did as well. Alan was certainly a worthwhile prize for helping turn this place into a halfway respectable theatre. "There is a reason I do not enjoy the knowledge that you still have other appointments."

"I understand, my dear Duke, but I am still an employee of the Moulin Rouge. I have my obligations," Alan said. "You surely understand that. But your company is important to me." Not strictly a lie, and Alan could hear the possessiveness in Duke William's tone easily. For now, that was good. It meant that the Duke wanted him, and that want was what would keep him here until the show could come to fruition. He leaned over and pressed a kiss to the dark-haired man's cheek, and William actually chuckled.

"So important to you that you refuse to sleep with me?" he jested.

Alan bit his lip. "I do not...refuse. I simply find it to be rather nice to spend time with you. To let things happen on their own." Which, ultimately, was refusing. He had no intentions to sleep with this man until the night of the show, and even then, it would mean nothing more than any other client. That is to say, nothing. "You are wonderful, far more so than my usual company. That makes it all the more special that you have not left because I have asked you to wait. Most men only want one thing from me, but you are still here." Empty, pretty words. But they were what the man wanted to hear, even if they were a lie. 

William was a cold man, and it was often awkward attempting to converse with him. Alan was slowly realizing that he absolutely preferred Eric's company. He'd caught himself several times over the past few days considering wandering off to find Eric, coming up with excuses to spend time with him. He genuinely wanted to see where things could go with the blond songwriter, because he'd never felt like this about anyone before. He'd fallen hard, and now he had to keep it secret from the Duke, or everything else would fall apart.

Duke William, meanwhile, was content with Alan's response. From what he could tell, the courtesan was smitten with him. And why not? He was powerful, he was rich... There was no reason the young man wouldn't be falling into his lap. William simply drank it in, tolerating the other rabble and waiting for the time when he could finally have all of Alan.

* * *

Down on the stage, Eric and Asmodeus were having a grand time. The violet-haired courtesan might not have known specifically what was going on, but he'd noticed that Alan's mood seemed to have been a bit better the past few days, so he didn't need to worry about him as much. He could focus instead on learning his lines for the show, with Eric's help.

"So Alan does the first two verses of the aria solo, and then I do a verse solo..." he repeated out loud, ticking them off on his fingers.

"Righ'. An' then there's th' instrumental bridge, an' the angel looks all torn abou' whether 'r not he's glad t' see ya. All y've gotta do for tha' part is stand an' look hopefully up at 'im." Eric gestured to the right-hand side of the stage, where a large square had been taped off right on the side, stretching behind the curtain. "Th' balcony set piece is goin' there, an' Alan'll be up there till the song's done. So he'll finally turn back t'ya an' smile..."

Asmodeus nodded. "And we both sing the last two verses together. And then he flies down on the harness." He pouted a bit, poking at Eric's arm. "Are you suuuuuure I can't do _anything_ with the harness other than the ending?"

"Yer human. Last I checked, humans don' go flyin' around like birds."

"But the harnesses are so much fun!"

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Y'could go pester Alan t'switch parts with ya, but I don' think he'd do it." He was sure Grell wouldn't allow it either, considering how perfect Alan was for his part. And since the costume was already in progress. It was already short enough on Alan; Nina would have to remake it completely for it to be long enough to maintain some level of decency on the taller courtesan's frame.

Covering his mouth to stifle a laugh, Asmodeus flapped his free hand at Eric. "No, no, I don't want to be an angel. That's no fun."

"Well, y'get turned int' one at th' end, so too bad." He swatted at the other man in retaliation, grinning. "Only other choice is stayin' dead, an' that's not a very happy endin'."

"At least I get to die dramatically!" the courtesan cried, turning and darting out as if leaping in front of someone. He stiffened, staggered, miming being hit, and stumbled back to crumple to the floor in a single, practiced motion. 

Eric wandered over, continuing to narrate, "An' then th' angel cries 'No!' an' desperately tries t' shake ya awake." He nudged Asmodeus with his foot for effect. "But yer dead, an' the demon keeps advancing. An' then--"

"And then I make my grand entrance!" Grell burst through the back curtain, clad in a slinky black dress with a red feather boa thrown around her shoulders. She struck a dramatic pose, and both men stared at her, wearing matching baffled expressions.

Eric finally ventured, "Yer no' wearin' tha', are ya?"

"Nina was planning something much more dramatic..." Asmodeus sounded confused.

The Queen of the Moulin rolled her eyes at them. "Really, you two, of course this isn't my costume! This is just what I'm wearing today." She did a spin, showing off, and then giggled. "I'll look much grander when we perform, suitable for the Goddess that saves you and dearest Alan~ Where is he, anyway?"

Asmodeus shrugged. "He's visiting with the Duke. Said he was going to work on his part later, before his appointment."

"Yeah," Eric chimed in. "We're workin' on memorizing th' bits when he leaves th' clerk. He's meetin' me over at my place t' get some quiet."

Grell beamed. "It's excellent that he and the Duke are getting along so well!" she chimed, completely skipping over the fact of him working on his part in the show. "At this rate, everything will go off without a hitch! It's a shame, though; that Duke is awfully handsome~ Alan's lucky~"

Eric had many things he could say about Duke William, but he kept them to himself. It hadn't been a conscious decision for him and Alan to be gradually more affectionate. They hadn't known what they were going to do or _how_ they were going to act around each other. But a few days ago when they had been working through the script, they'd looked up, noticed they were alone, and Alan had hesitated a moment before leaning against him comfortably. Eric hadn't said anything, just let him stay close. From there it escalated to small touches, like hands resting atop each other’s or fingers entwined. Soon, they were stealing tentative kisses when they were certain no one was around. And Alan was warm and relaxed, which were things Eric had noticed he clearly wasn't when around the Duke.

Like now. Here they were, coming down the stairs, and Alan was holding onto the Duke's arm but looking mildly discomfited. Eric looked over and smiled, but felt the faintest twinge of jealousy that the dark-haired man got to have Alan close and affectionate in public. Although, honestly, William had yet to display anything that looked remotely like affection, at least while Eric was around. Maybe he was a charmer in private. Who knew?

"The Duke was hoping to see me and Asmodeus run our first scene before he has to return to his office," Alan explained when they arrived at the stage. Duke William was looking critically at the three of them, from Eric's scruffy appearance to Grell's low-cut dress. It was obvious he didn't approve.

"Tha's no problem," Eric replied. "D'ya mean th' very beginnin', with th' narration, or th' one where they actually meet?"

William rolled his eyes. "Their first scene together. The one where they meet. Are you hard of hearing?"

The songwriter raised an eyebrow. "Not a bit, sir. Are y'always so condesc-"

But Alan cut him off before he could finish, pointing backstage where Sebastian and Ciel were working on their lines and saying, "Oh, go see if Sebastian will play the music that goes with that scene. Just for a few minutes!"

Begrudgingly, Eric nodded and headed over to see if the musician would oblige them, leaving Alan to smooth over anything that needed to be smoothed. He could hear Grell saying airily, "Oh, he's just new, he's not used to catering to clients the way the other employees are yet," and the Duke responding, "One cannot really expect better from a place such as _this._ "

He resisted the urge to turn and give Duke William one last glare. It was official.

He really didn't like that guy.

* * *

The scene was run to the Duke's satisfaction, despite both performers still needing to hold copies of their scripts. When the dark-haired man finally left for the afternoon, Eric made his exit to return to his flat, and Alan assured him he'd be along after he went to speak with Nina. Apparently she'd forgotten to measure his feet for the angel's shoes.

So it was about twenty minutes before Alan knocked on the door, and when Eric opened it, the brunet hurried inside. "Thank goodness..."

"What's wrong?" Eric asked, going over to retrieve the tea he'd started a few minutes before and setting the cups on the small tea table in front of the couch.

Alan walked over as the blond sat down, sitting beside him and taking a cup. "Duke William is...difficult," he said slowly. "It's hard to have a conversation with him."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Seems like a rude git t' me. "Hard o' hearin'", really? What a condescendin' bastard."

"He doesn't like any of it," Alan sighed. "That's one thing I've learned: he doesn't approve of brothels or prostitutes or anything of the like. I'm almost positive the only reason he's staying with the Moulin is because of me." He took a sip of tea. "It's frustrating to spend time with someone who is so distasteful of my way of life, even when _I'm_ not particularly fond of my way of life, and even when he is not blatantly disapproving."

Gathering up the scripts from the table, Eric shrugged. "Well, it's jus' another couple months, an then we'll have a real show an' we won' need him anymore." Alan mumbled something, and the songwriter looked over curiously. "Wha' was tha'?"

Alan seemed to shrink a bit. "I'dratherspendtimewithyou."

Eric laughed a bit, rubbing the back of his head. "Y'would?"

"The more time I spend with the Duke the more I realize I'd rather be spending it with you. I don't...feel awkward around you anymore," the courtesan explained quietly. "It's nice to...not feel any pressure. To not feel like I have to impress you."

"Y'impress me jus' by bein' here," Eric countered, wrapping an arm around him. "'m still baffled why y'd want me an' not a rich nobleman."

"I couldn't help it." Alan flushed a bit. "It's not like I could control who I fell for."

Eric nuzzled his hair. "'m jus' teasin'. Don' look so embarrassed." He pressed a kiss to the top of Alan's head, and the younger looked up, shifting just enough to reach Eric's lips with his own. The kiss was soft, chaste, like their other kisses had been these past few days. Eric slipped his arm lower around Alan's waist to pull him closer, and Alan made a quiet sound, pressing more firmly into the kiss. Tentatively, always aware of Alan's reactions, Eric caught the brunet's lower lip between his, tracing just the tip of his tongue over it. He smiled into the kiss at the small squeak of surprise he got, and shifted his body to a more comfortable position, lifting his free hand to cup Alan's cheek.

Alan broke the kiss for a moment to take a deep breath, then leaned in for another, tilting his head and parting his lips just enough to brush his tongue over Eric's lips. The songwriter responded immediately, enthusiastically, sliding his hand around to cup the back of Alan's neck and holding him close for a deep kiss. Alan simply let himself melt into it, making a content sound as Eric's tongue stroked along his and matching him motion for motion.

As Eric flicked his tongue against the roof of Alan's mouth, the brunet moaned softly, and suddenly realized how close they were. When had he practically ended up in Eric's lap? He broke the kiss again, feeling the heat of embarrassment now, rather than fervor. "I...ah..." Words. He knew how to use them. He didn't even notice the disappointed look on Eric's face, trying to figure out what he was trying to say. "Sorry, I got carried away..." he finally managed awkwardly, reluctantly drawing away from Eric. The blond started to reach out, as if to pull him back, but then paused and swallowed hard.

"I love ya," Eric said bluntly, practically blurting out the words before he could change his mind.

Alan's eyes widened. "W-What?"

"I love ya, Alan," Eric repeated with a helpless looking smile. He had turned pink with embarrassment. "I wish we could spend more time t'gether; I wish I could make ya happy."

The courtesan stared. He'd never expected Eric to actually, well, say it. He'd told Eric a week ago that he couldn't pin his hopes on falling in love. He'd listened to countless men over the years profess to love him, and none of them had meant it. But Eric felt genuine. Eric had always felt genuine, and Alan barely knew what to do with real feelings. He shifted back over to press his face against a broad shoulder, mumbling, "You do make me happy." The songwriter was someone he could be himself around. "But...we can't do...this. What about the Duke?"

"Keep it a secret?" Eric suggested. "Like y'said earlier, he doesn' even like brothels an' prostitutes. Maybe he'll jus' leave after th' show."

"Will that work? What if he doesn't? He's possessive enough now."

"If he's a gentleman he'll get that y'don' like him like that an' stop tryin' t' court ya." Eric shrugged. "We'll never know unless we try, though." He couldn't imagine Duke William sticking around for long, especially if Alan was clear that there were no romantic feelings involved on his part. If it was true that the only reason he was acting as the Moulin Rouge's patron was Alan, then he would surely depart as soon as he realized Alan wasn't interested. "Jus' keep him around long enough to get th' show off the ground, an' then let him leave if he only cares about winnin' yer affection."

Alan nodded hesitantly. "You're right. We can at least try. And I, um..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I...love you too."

The grin that spread across Eric's face was warm and honest, and his hand was calloused but comforting as he tipped Alan's chin up to give him another kiss. It would have been so easy to get lost in the warmth and the easy movements of lips and tongue, but eventually they had to pull away, and the songwriter said reluctantly, "We should work on the script. Lots 'o lines t' memorize..."

For a moment, Alan looked resigned, but then he smiled deviously. "Yes, so very many lines. I might need extra help trying to learn them all."

Eric blinked, then caught on. "Oh? Maybe y'should get someone t' help with that."

"Maybe I should. Surely someone would be willing to drill lines with me."

"Well... I could help ya."

Alan raised an eyebrow, trying not to laugh. "You would do that for me?"

"Course I would," Eric chuckled. "I wan' th' show t'be a success, don' I?" He reached for the script, flipping through exaggeratedly. "With this many lines, y'll prolly want t' come an' review at least an hour a day. Maybe two."

"I think I can fit that into my schedule. Thank you for taking the time to help me, Mr. Slingby~" Alan said, finally giving in and giggling. Eric wrapped him up in a hug and squeezed him, laughing as well.

"My pleasure~" If all of their afternoons were as peaceful as this one, things were going to turn out just fine.


	12. Secret-Keepers

Two weeks passed in a blur as the show came together. Alan, Asmodeus, Ciel, Sebastian, and the rest of the cast rehearsed extensively in the mornings and early afternoon, before the Moulin opened up for customers. Alan, specifically, set aside an hour or two each day for visiting Eric's flat, to go over his lines and practice the singing parts. Occasionally Asmodeus accompanied them, so they could work on the duet, but mostly it was just the songwriter and the courtesan, living out their clandestine love story behind closed doors.

Tonight, however, Alan had an appointment with one of his regular clients. Not one with a title, this time, but someone with at least enough money to buy his company for the evening. So Eric had agreed to accompany Ronald to a nearby pub. Sebastian and Claude had been invited as well, but they had both turned down the invitation. Sebastian was still working on the orchestral parts of the finale music, and Claude was helping Rosa choreograph one of the dance sequences. So it was just the pair of writers sitting in the pub, talking about anything they could think of that wasn't the show.

"S' Ron, who's the redhead y've been hangin' around with lately?" Eric asked, grinning indecently at the younger blond. "Found a new friend at th' Moulin?"

Ronald huffed. "Oi, shut up." He took a swig of his pint, nudging Eric with his shoulder. "We're working for a place full of beautiful girls. Give me a break. Besides, Mei's one of the dancers. She doesn't do...that stuff."

Eric laughed. "Wha', get paid t' sleep with people? 's a bordello, Ronnie, not much point in sugar coatin' it."

"Well, what about you and Alan?" Ronald asked, pouting at him. "You two have been awfully close lately."

"What d'ya mean? We're workin' on th' show." Eric shrugged, saluting the man behind the counter as another beer was placed in front of him. He took a long drink, then continued, "Alan's got a lot o' lines t' memorize, an' he asked me t'help."

"Hm." Ronald looked unconvinced. "You both go off every afternoon. He lets you correct his position or posture when they're doing scene run-throughs, and doesn't swat at you for touching him. He even swats at Miss Grell, but not you." Watching them both interact, it was fairly obvious, to Ronald at least, that something had happened to make Alan about a thousand times more comfortable around Eric.

The songwriter frowned. Ronald was a lot more observant than Eric had given him credit for. "Nothin's goin' on, an' even if it was, it wouldn' be any o' yer business, would it?"

Ronald looked back at his mug, downing the rest of his drink. He was silent for a few minutes, and Eric thought the subject had been dropped, but then the younger blond turned to look at him with wide eyes. "You aren't sleeping with him, are you?!"

"No," Eric denied immediately, and Ronald squinted suspiciously at him. He took another drink to have an excuse to not meet his gaze.

"So..." Ronald said, faux-casually, blatantly trying to wheedle more information out of him. "Not sleeping with Alan, then?"

"Not yet," Eric said without thinking. Ronald blinked, actually dumbfounded, and the songwriter slumped over to bang his forehead against the countertop. "Fuck." He hadn't meant to say that, he hadn't meant to out himself, the words had just slipped out. But Ronald just burst out laughing, leaning over the counter.

"I knew it! You do like him! I knew from the very first time you saw him; you lit up and gaped like an idiot and got so flustered. It was hilarious," the writer gasped out, clutching his stomach and trying to stop giggling. "Jeeze, though, I didn't expect you to blurt it out like that. So what, are you trying to get on his good side so you can get him into bed? Because that's kind of low, Eric."

"No!" Eric objected loudly. Several people turned to look at them after not one, but two outbursts, and Eric continued, quieter, "I'm in love with 'im. An' he likes me back. 'm not tryin' t' take advantage of him."

Ronald's smile wilted a bit. "Eric, I dunno if that's a good idea..."

The older blond frowned in turn. "Didn' ask f'r yer approval, did I?" He looked moodily down into his mug, and Ronald sighed.

"Mate, I'm not telling you not to be happy. And jeeze, of course Alan deserves to be happy, if you two really do love each other. But the show, Eric, we need the show. And we need the Duke for the show." He didn't know a better way to explain this. There were other people involved in this; the picture was much bigger than their apparent romance. "I'm glad you two make each other happy, but I don't want to get fired because you mess up and make the Duke angry enough to leave."

"We're keepin' it a secret, at least 'til th' show's done," Eric said. "Alan doesn' like him anyway. An' hopefully he's enough of a gentleman t' back off when he learns that."

Ronald shrugged. "Dunno. He's kind of a stiff. But who knows. Just be careful, okay? I mean, if I figured it out... And Grell would have a fit!"

"Grell's not gonna find out. No one else is gonna find out. We'll be careful. Don' worry so much."

"If you say so, Eric..."

* * *

Alan's appointment passed uneventfully as usual. This client was boring, to be utterly blunt. For all of his attempts at being charming, Mr. Alexander Tressigan was rather unimaginative when it came to sex. He was also younger than Alan by a year or two, more than likely the son of a rich merchant or something. Alan honestly felt sorry for any women he decided to court. Alex had told the brunet courtesan once that one of the reasons he found Alan appealing was how feminine he looked, but if he tried to bed a woman the same way he bedded Alan, the poor dear would never reach orgasm. Thankfully, he knew enough to at least pay some attention to Alan's cock, so he got his climax in the end, but in the meantime Alan had to lie back and pretend to enjoy what was being done to him.

Fumbling twit. If Alex was trying to learn for when he one day had a wife, he was doing a poor job of it.

At the very least, the appointment had been more tolerable than usual. Alan had accidentally drifted off into daydreaming about Eric, and was forced to acknowledge that for once, _he_ was the one who wanted someone. It wasn't strictly the other way around. It had been so _easy_ to close his eyes and replace Alex with the handsome songwriter, it was almost frightening. But so far, Eric hadn't made any sort of moves to seduce him, and he wasn't sure if he could take the initiative required or not. He loved Eric; he didn't want it to feel like just another evening of seducing a client.

When the courtesan returned to his own room, he gathered up his pajamas and headed for the shower. He cut the water on hot and began to wash away any remaining traces of his hapless client, as well as the lavender scent he usually wore for those appointments. His own personal bit of mockery, really. Lavender meant 'distrust' in the language of flowers, and he certainly didn't trust anyone who paid for his company. Charming or not, deep down, they were all the same.

Thankfully tomorrow he didn't have an appointment, and he could spend the evening at Eric's. It was astonishing how comfortable he felt around the tall blond after only two weeks, but he couldn't deny that being around Eric made him happy. And judging by his wandering thoughts during his appointment, obviously other things about Eric were appealing as well.

He dried off and put on his pajamas, just in time for a knock at his door. Ruffling his damp hair, he went to answer it, and smiled when he saw Asmodeus. "Hey, 'Deus. How was your evening?" he asked, stepping aside to let the other in.

"Pretty good. Lady Katrina was here again," the older courtesan laughed, going over to sit on the edge of Alan's bed. "Her husband clearly just isn't cutting it~" he giggled, kicking his feet. "What about you?"

"Alex Tressigan." Alan rolled his eyes.

"Oh, dear. Need some help~?" Asmodeus winked at him suggestively, and Alan shook his head, smiling a bit.

"He's gotten better from the first few times, but not by much." At least he'd learned how to make sure Alan reached climax too. The first couple of times, the courtesan had been stuck with his own hand after Alex had left.

Snagging one of Alan's pillows to squeeze and rest his chin on, the other man smiled in return. "That's good, I guess. At least you're getting _something_ out of his visits." As Alan came over to sit beside him, he hesitated a moment, then asked, "Can I ask you something, Alan?"

"You just did," Alan replied, a tiny smirk curling his lips.

Asmodeus shoved him, grinning. "Evil. Come on, I've got a serious question."

"All right, fine. What?"

"Is there something going on with you and Eric?"

Alan stiffened. He schooled his face into as neutral an expression as he could manage, and replied in what he hoped was a casual voice, "What makes you think there's something going on?"

The violet-haired courtesan raised an eyebrow. "You've been different. I've known you for years, Alan. I can tell. You're...brighter. Happier. And it has something to do with all that time you've been spending around Eric."

"Eric is just..." Nice? Kind? _Real?_

Asmodeus studied the uncertain expression on Alan's face. “You like him.” The uncertainty got worse, filling Alan’s eyes as if threatening to spill over, and he amended, “No… You love him. You fell in love with him. Alan…”

"I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help it!" Alan blurted, burying his face in his hands. "He's just so...wonderful. I don't even understand it. But he is, but the Duke... What am I going to do about the Duke...?"

Wrapping an arm around Alan, Asmodeus rested his chin in the younger's hair. "Calm down, calm down. It's okay." He nuzzled the top of his head, asking, "Does Eric feel the same way?"

"Y-Yeah..."

"Then...I'm happy for you." He pushed Alan back to look him in the eyes. "I've never seen you so happy as I have in the past two weeks. And I have always wanted you to be happy. If Eric is what puts that smile on your face, then you hold onto him, and you don't let go." He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. "I'm just worried about the Duke."

Alan frowned. "And I'm worried about Grell too, now that I think about it." He sighed, slumping over. "I know that the Duke is a problem. We're just...going to keep it a secret until the show. That should keep Grell from coming after us, too."

"Grell loves all this romantic stuff, though," Asmodeus pointed out. "Wouldn't she be positively thrilled over the 'forbidden love' of the high-class courtesan and the penniless writer?" 

"Maybe for a while." Alan rested his head on his friend's shoulder with another sigh. "But if she sees this as something that will hurt the Moulin Rouge, and by extension hurt her and everyone else, she'll put her foot down."

Asmodeus kissed the top of his head. "We won't let it come to that. I'm certainly not going to say anything. If you want to keep it a secret, I'll honor that."

The brunet courtesan managed a smile. "Thanks, 'Deus." Maybe things would turn out all right after all.

"Of course! Eric seems like a good guy. As long as he's good to you, I don't have any problems." Asmodeus nudged Alan conspiratorially. "Honestly, I'm sort of jealous you got to him first. He was gorgeous in that suit, even if he wasn't a Duke~"

"Oh, shut up!" Alan nudged back. "I didn't 'get to him'. This wasn't supposed to happen!"

"Of course not! Because he's not really, really attractive or anything."

"Shut up!" Alan shoved his friend over, grabbing a pillow and walloping him in the face with it. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

"Oh, come on, Alan, it's nothing to be ashamed of~! So you've got good taste in men!" Asmodeus grabbed another pillow, holding it up as a defense.

Alan couldn't help but laugh, swinging at him again. "That's certainly true. Eric's better than Thomas or Oliver, and certainly better than Alex!"

Asmodeus chose launching his own pillow-based attack over responding, knocking Alan back into a tangle of sheets. Both courtesans were relentless with their fluffy weapons, and Alan grinned. He should have known Asmodeus would understand. He always did.


	13. Sincerity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The M-rating really kicks in this chapter, so be warned. But hey, you're reading a story about a bordello. What did you expect? ;)

"So how does this sound?" Sebastian asked, playing a few chords on the piano. "I want it to be ominous, reminiscent of a slow funeral dirge." He and Claude were up on the stage; Claude was warming up to work on choreography for the opening sequence and waiting for Rosa, while Sebastian was trying to perfect some of the last pieces of music for the score.

"Is that for the finale? It seems terribly grim," Claude commented.

Sebastian shook his head. "No, I've finished the finale music. This is the moment when the angel leaves to go to the prince. It carries on from the moment he leaves the clerk, becomes softer while he speaks with the prince, and crescendos when the audience sees the clerk mourning his loss. Then it segues into the music for the aria." Turning back to the piano, he added, "Listen. I just want to ensure that the backing chords are conveying the proper tone. The violins and woodwinds will take the primary melody, like this..." He played a slow, mournful tune with his right hand, and Claude listened intently. "And then the cellos, the organ, and the double-bass take the chords." He added his left hand, tapping out the chords effortlessly The effect was definitely there; the minor chords lent it a foreboding air that would convey the despair and heartbreak of the two main characters.

"I think it will work well like that," Claude said. "Is that the same tune as the music when the clerk and the angel first meet?"

"Yes. It's simply slower and changed to a minor chord."

Claude chuckled. "Of course. Happiness into sadness, a hopeful theme into a despairing one... I would expect no less from you."

Pleased with the rare compliment, Sebastian smiled, but before he could reply he was cut off by Nina Hopkins, who hurried across the stage with Ciel in tow. The slate-haired young man looked distressed at being dragged, but couldn't pry her grip off of his sleeve.

"Sebastian Michaelis! I need you to come get your costume fitted!" Nina called. "You and Mr. Phantomhive have two of the major roles! I need to ensure that your outfits are perfect!" When she got close enough, she caught hold of his sleeve with her free hand. "Come along, come along, do you know how difficult it is to work with leather? I'd rather do this as few times as possible, and that means you need to cooperate!"

Sebastian blinked, but allowed himself to be tugged offstage towards the costume department. "Leather?"

"Yes, leather, you're a demon. What do you think minions of Hell wear, dinner jackets and pajama pants?"

He and Ciel exchanged glances, more intrigued than anything now. Nina towed them into her workroom, letting them go long enough to shut the door and then turning on them. "Strip."

Rather than risk arguing with the Moulin's Mad Tailor, they obeyed. If it had been anyone other than the costume designer, it might have been uncomfortable to be standing around in their undergarments, but Sebastian just shrugged off any discomfort, and Ciel attempted to put on a brave face and not shiver despite the temperature in the room.

Nina handed Ciel a large bundle that appeared to be comprised of a lot of royal blue and navy fabric and silver braid, and then passed Sebastian something that appeared to be almost nothing but black leather. She had to help Ciel find his way through all the pieces of his costume, and when he was finally put together, he looked every inch a regal prince. Nina picked up the lightweight silver crown that had been crafted for him and set it neatly on his head, pinning it carefully in place.

"Don't you look _perfect!"_ she exclaimed. She walked around him looking him over from all angles, and then clipped his cape to his shoulders, an elegant thing of navy velvet, and pushed him towards the three-way mirrors. "Go look at yourself!"

Ciel wandered over to the mirror, spinning around and looking at himself. "Nina, you've actually outdone yourself. Sebastian, look at--" But he stopped mid-sentence, staring at his troupe-mate.

Sebastian had struggled his way into the tight leather pants, the fitted, long-sleeved leather top, and the thigh-high leather stiletto boots. He took a step forward, wobbling a bit on the needle-sharp points of the boots, and raised an eyebrow. "Miss Nina, are you entirely certain this is correct?"

"Oh, yes!" Nina chimed, bustling over with a mad look in her eye and a pair of long black leather gloves. The fingertips had been specially designed to mimic long black claws, fitting for a demon. "You'll look perfectly menacing!" She helped him pull the gloves on, and looked him over. "You'll have wings, like Alan's only black, and horns that go into your hair."

"I'm rather impressed, Miss Nina." Sebastian said, looking himself over. "I will need to practice walking in these shoes, I believe. They are certainly something a devil would invent."

"Yes, you will. You're not tipping over and ruining those shoes. The heels have custom detailing," Nina said imperiously. "Now take those off. They need to be checked over for any last details." She waved them off to change, and Ciel and Sebastian again followed her orders. So far the costumes were looking fantastic, and the show looked like it was going to be spectacular.

* * *

That evening, Alan made his way to Eric's flat on his own, making his excuses to Grell that the songwriter wanted his opinion on an adjustment to the opening lyrics of the second act. He'd spent most of the afternoon with Duke William, pretending to be charmed and politely declining invitations to dinner. It was getting more difficult to come up with reasons not to attend anything in the evenings with the dark-haired man. Alan knew his game; William was going to try to seduce him before opening night. But working on the show was a valid enough excuse to get out of anything, and hopefully it would be impressive, how much work he appeared to be putting in to make the show a success.

Eric welcomed him into the flat warmly, smiling and taking his coat to hang on the rack by the door. Tea was prepared and waiting on the table in front of the couch, and freshly baked biscuits on a small plate accompanied it.

"Oh," Alan said, surprised at the sight. "You didn't have to go through all the trouble..."

"It's no trouble. I haven' gotten t'cook anythin' in a long while," Eric replied, heading over to pour the tea. Alan came over to sit on the couch, and beamed as the blond man passed him a cup and settled beside him. "I've always liked cookin'. Makes people happy t'have good food t' eat."

Alan sampled a biscuit and hummed his approval. "Well, these are delicious. If the songwriting doesn't work out, maybe you can open a restaurant."

"Never thought 'o tha'. Might be a good idea." Eric wrapped an arm around him, nuzzling his hair. "You'd come eat there, wouldn' ya?"

"Every week." Alan nudged his head against Eric's playfully, then took a sip of his tea. "So, about those lyrics in the second act... What were you thinking of changing?" He knew there was nothing to change. It was an excuse for both of them, a public reason for their being alone together. But actually acknowledging that was easier thought of than actually spoken.

Eric shrugged. "Well, y'know, there's a few bits here an' there tha' could prolly use some work... Y'might have t' stay late if we're goin' over a lot..." He wasn't about to just come out and say that he wanted to spend time with the other, either.

The courtesan giggled, nestling against him and taking another biscuit. They actually did end up chatting for a while about how the costumes were coming together. They'd both gotten a glimpse of Nina working on everyone's outfits, and Eric had listened to Sebastian and Ciel talk excitedly about their costumes after their fitting that morning. Alan's costume was basically finished, and the brunet was especially enamored with the gold sandals Nina had created for his angel costume. But the conversation eventually drifted to the different sorts of clients Alan had served over the years. He could tell a million stories about the men, and occasionally women, who craved his company.

"No, there was this man once, he _insisted_ that he had to kiss me goodbye. And I wanted no part of that. So I told him that it had to be a kiss on the cheek. And he came once a month for about six months and complained every single time because he said it was impolite not to kiss me goodbye properly." Alan waved a biscuit as he talked, his tea safely on the table. "I think his wife eventually found out where he was spending those evenings, but I never saw him again after that."

Laughing, Eric managed to take a bite out of the biscuit as Alan waved it around in front of his face. "Sounds like he got in some trouble f'r that."

"Hey! That was mine!" Alan pouted, looking down at the remaining half-biscuit before popping it in his mouth. "You rude man."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Y'want it back?" he teased. When Alan blinked at him, confused, he puckered his lips exaggeratedly. "C'mon~"

The courtesan smiled wryly, finishing his half of the biscuit before pushing up to crush his lips against Eric's. Eric kissed back immediately, and even though the biscuit was long gone, Alan wasn't going to complain, because kissing Eric was certainly enough to make up for it. He opened his mouth when Eric requested with his tongue, letting the blond wind strong arms around him.

Eric fell back against the couch's squashy armrest, pulling Alan with him to sprawl across his chest. Their lips never separated, and the courtesan made a content sound as Eric nipped his lower lip, his own tongue instinctively brushing over the spot before pushing for entrance to Eric's mouth.

For a long time, they simply kissed, enjoying each other's closeness and taste. Eric ran his hands up and down Alan's back, fingers dancing over the strip of warm skin revealed by the way his shirt bunched up. But when he kneaded at the small of Alan's back, the younger man mewled, hips arching involuntarily, and Eric grinned into the kiss.

"Tha's a nice reaction," he purred. Alan tried to respond, but was cut off by a moan as Eric massaged at that spot and pressed a leg up between his thighs.

"Eric...!" Alan cried, his voice trembling a bit. The songwriter nudged him to shift up, pressing kisses along his jaw and down his neck. He kissed firmly at the crook of Alan's neck, laving his tongue over the spot, and Alan moaned and rocked against his leg before taking a grip on blond hair and pulling Eric back. "No," he said breathlessly. "No marks..."

"All righ'," Eric murmured, and traced his tongue in intricate patterns across the hollow of Alan's throat before pulling back. "Better?" he asked softly.

Alan was momentarily dumbfounded by the sincerity of not just the question, but the whole situation. Eric wasn't a client. If Alan was unhappy, he didn't have to lie. But he didn't want to stop. He wanted Eric. "Yes," he replied. "Wonderful..." He ground down against the other man, pressing his own leg between Eric's as best he could.

With one last brush against that newly-discovered sensitive spot, Eric ran his hands up the brunet's back, taking the shirt with them. Alan adjusted enough to allow the shirt to slip over his head and sat back, suddenly bashful. His clients found him beautiful, he knew that. But he really cared what Eric thought about him.

Eric ran his hands slowly up the courtesan's sides, just feeling the soft skin, and admiring the man's toned chest and tender-looking nipples. "Yer stunnin', Alan... Gorgeous..." He sat up, his arms settling around Alan's waist, and nuzzled him. "Jus'...tell me what ya want. What can I do t'make ya feel good?"

"W-Well..." Alan found himself startlingly shy now that he didn't have to put on a show. "Kisses are nice..."

"Mmhmm..." The songwriter nibbled along his collarbones, careful not to bite too hard. He pulled Alan to straddle his lap, gripping his hips to keep him as close as possible. Alan moaned, clutching at his shoulders, and nodded sharply.

"Yes, that..." Another whimper escaped as Eric trailed lower, growing to a full-fledged cry as warm lips surrounded his nipple and sucked, and Eric's tongue flicked against the hardening nub. Alan arched, barely even noticing the other man laying him back against the couch until he was already horizontal.

Eric teased his other nipple for a moment as well before sitting up a bit. "So... How d'ya like it best, hm?" he asked, his voice husky, but genuinely curious. He wanted to give Alan anything he wanted. He wanted to look after him, not be selfish like his clients.

But Alan wasn't used to having someone want to cater to his pleasure, and he flushed at the question. "I, ah..." Afraid his head might catch fire from his ever-darkening blush, he stammered, "N-No one's ever g-given me a proper b-blowjob..." He gave them to other people. They didn't often return the favor. Occasionally someone tried, but often gave up after a very brief attempt. They were there to be serviced, not the other way around. Eric, however, didn't shy away. He just smiled, charming in the most sincere way Alan had ever seen, and leaned down to press a kiss to the brunet's stomach.

"All righ'. Comin' right up." Kisses were scattered across Alan's hipbones and in between, and he grabbed at the couch cushions, shutting his eyes. So he shivered a bit, not expecting the touch when Eric carefully undid his pants and tugged them down, taking his undergarments with them and leaving him bare on the worn couch. "Okay?"

"Yeah..." He forced himself to open his eyes, meeting Eric's sea-green gaze. The songwriter smiled, running his fingers teasingly down Alan's thighs, coaxing him to spread his legs so he could follow his fingers with faintly scratchy kisses. Alan squirmed and gasped as his lips finally pressed against his hard length, and Eric chuckled, taking hold of his hips.

"Hold still." And he took Alan's cock into his mouth, teasing the underside and head with his tongue.

Alan wailed, grabbing at Eric's hair as wet heat surrounded him. This was far better than anything any of his clients had ever done to him. He couldn't stop the sounds he made as Eric bobbed his head and massaged his sac, and he felt the blond smile around his cock. Everything was pleasure and warmth, and he felt amazing, and if Eric didn't stop soon he was going to come far too quickly. He tugged helplessly at Eric's hair, hoping the other would understand, and took a deep, shuddery breath when the other obeyed his unspoken request.

Eric nuzzled his hip instead, smiling and pressing kisses to his skin. "Too much?"

"No, I just... I'd rather... I want you to..." Words. Where were his words?

But Eric seemed to understand, his eyes dark with want. "Le's move somewhere more comfortable, then, yeah?" He easily scooped up the slender courtesan, heading back to where the bed was waiting. Alan clung to his neck, nuzzling Eric's collar and grumbling about how Eric was still fully clothed. Eric laughed, depositing him onto the bed and beginning to shrug out of his shirt. "All righ', all righ', here..." He tossed the shirt aside, then stripped off his pants and undergarments. "Now we're even."

"Good." Alan pulled the larger man down and pressed close, kissing at his neck and toned chest before finding his lips again. Eric squeezed him tight, grinding against him roughly, and the smaller male moaned loudly into the kiss. "Please, I want...!"

"Patience..." Eric rummaged around in the side table until he unearthed a jar of lube. Dangling it over Alan's face, he teased, "This?"

Alan blushed again, looking away. "Yes, that, stop teasing me!"

"As y'wish..." Eric purred. "Spread yer legs, then~" He slicked his fingers, teasing Alan open with one, then two. The courtesan whimpered and bucked his hips at the friction and gentle touch, but refused to meet Eric's gaze. "Wha's wrong, Alan? Everything feels okay?" Eric stilled his fingers, looking concerned.

"How..." Alan cringed, struggling for words. "How are you not...disgusted? How can you just...?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"I've slept with so many people. How does that not bother you?" the younger man asked, his voice wobbly. "How can you even touch me without thinking--?"

Eric cut him off with a kiss, gentle this time, and then soft pecks on his jaw and cheeks. "Because I love ya. I don' care who else y've slept with. Y'said ya love me back--"

"I do!"

"--so there's nothin' f'r me t' worry abou'." Eric beamed, and hooked his fingers upward to make Alan buck and mewl. "I jus' wanna make sure ya feel as good as possible."

"Y-You're -- ah! -- succeeding!" Alan yelped, writhing as Eric hit his prostate and sent the sensitive nerves into overdrive. "God, please, just...!"

Eric took pity on him, sliding his fingers out and letting Alan pull him down atop him like a large, living blanket. He shifted them into position, resting his forehead on Alan's. "Are y'sure?"

Alan blinked up at him, emerald eyes filled with want and amazement and love, and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm sure." He buried his face in Eric's neck as the blond pushed inside, automatically adjusting to make the entrance easier, as he'd learned from far too much practice. For a moment he was self-conscious, that he'd had that much practice, but he reminded himself that Eric didn't care, that Eric loved him regardless. It was a good feeling, and it made it so much better when he wrapped his legs around Eric's hips and urged him on, harder and faster and better, so much better than the meaningless sex he'd had with his clients. He couldn't ask for anything more.

Keeping his rhythm quick and steady, Eric couldn't believe the situation either. What had he done to earn the love of someone as amazing as Alan? He listened to every noise, every whimper and sigh and cry of pleasure, adjusting to make Alan feel as much pleasure as possible. He deserved it; he spent so much of his time catering to other people. He deserved to be lavished with attention in return. And so he met Alan's bucks with harder thrusts, driving them both towards climax quickly.

It came on in a rush. Neither of them who could have said who came first, just that they were both clinging tightly, lost in skin and sensation and haphazard kisses interrupted by moans as everything peaked and crashed. Eric settled to the side as he pulled out, letting Alan nestle contentedly against his chest.

"Wow..." Alan managed, still breathless as he wrapped an arm over Eric and snuggled close.

"Y'were amazin'..." Eric replied, unable to stop smiling. He kissed the top of Alan's head and held him tight. They lay in comfortable silence for a long time, and then, regretfully, the blond asked, "D' we need t'clean up?"

Alan made a sleepy sound. "Not moving..."

"Have t'move at some point."

"Nope."

Eric raised an eyebrow. "Yer just gonna stay here?" Not that he was complaining. He just hadn't expected it.

Nodding, Alan shut his eyes again, nuzzling Eric's shoulder. "We'll be up early enough, no one will care. I'll just tell them I fell asleep while we were working..." He sounded so drowsy, Eric didn't have the heart to move him or try to change his mind. So he just pulled the blankets up over them both and shut his eyes, listening contentedly to Alan breathing. He felt like the luckiest man alive. 

Nothing could possibly ruin how wonderful things were.


	14. Wheel of the Rumor-Mill

"This is a complete waste of my abilities," Claude complained. It was the following day, early afternoon, and he and Alois were working on their brief lines from the three scenes they were in. They only had roughly two lines per scene, each, and Claude rolled his eyes. "I don't even get to be in a major dance number."

Alois flopped over on top of the crate he was sitting on. They were in the wings, close enough to see what was going on on the main stage, but far enough back to be out of the way. "But isn't that such a pain if you had a bigger part? Learning alllllll those lines?" He kicked purple-booted feet in the air absently. "It's much easier to just say _'yes your highness'_ and _'I saw them fleeing to the east!'_ I mean, Alan's been spending so much time with the songwriter, trying to learn all his parts. I'd rather have more time to spend with clients, or free time to spend with you~"

"I suppose helping to choreograph everything is an accomplishment, but still..." Claude pointedly ignored Alois's comment about spending more time with him. The little courtesan was smitten, but Claude couldn't say he felt the same. One night had been enough. "As for Mr. Humphries, so long as he is not keeping Eric from his other responsibilities coaching people through the singing parts, I see no problems with Eric helping him with his lines."

"But they're all alone together~ They could be getting up to all kinds of things!" Alois giggled.

Claude rolled his eyes. "Mr. Humphries is one of the most important employees here and is currently beholden to the Duke. Eric knows better than to interfere in such a professional arrangement like that."

"But Alan even _spent the night_ last night~!" The early-risers of the Moulin had seen him coming back from across the street, still in his clothes from the previous day.

"They were working late. It's likely they simply fell asleep. Eric's light was still on when I returned last night, and I was here quite late."

The blond courtesan groaned. "You're no fun, Claude! Have some imagination!" He hopped off of his crate, waving the script before tossing it aside. "I'm going to take a break!"

"Alois, we haven't gone over the third scene yet."

But Alois had wandered off in the direction of the stage, and Claude pressed a hand to his forehead. Honestly, that boy. If there was a way to ruin seven lines, Alois would probably manage it. But he wasn't Alois's babysitter, so he settled back to going over his own meager lines, pointedly ignoring the sounds of singing and practicing coming from elsewhere backstage.

* * *

Eric and Ronald, meanwhile, were onstage. The two writers were currently deep in a discussion with Grell about her grand entrance as Goddess of Death during the show's finale. In the script, it was written with her descending dramatically from the ceiling, but now that they were looking at the stage, Ronald was worried that with three people on harnesses, the wires might get tangled.

"I mean, look," he said, pointing from the taped-out X's on the stage up into the catwalks. "If Asmodeus and Alan are here... And you're here... When they go up on their harnesses, they'll get caught in your wires when they get closer."

Grell pouted, standing petulantly on her X. "But there's no other proper way for a _Goddess_ to enter the scene! I can't just burst through the scenery like I've been trekking through the woods!"

"Maybe a trapdoor?" Eric suggested offhandedly, shrugging.

"There isn't a trapdoor anywhere near here. It's at least two or three feet to the left!" Grell tapped a high-heeled foot impatiently. She was holding her ground on this one. They might be the architects of the show, but she was the owner of this bordello-turned-theatre _and_ a major character. "I am going to have my moment, damn it!"

Ronald, leery of making her too upset, wandered around the stage, looking back and forth between Grell, the catwalks, and the floor. He knew she wasn't going to let up on this until she got her way, so he might as well look for a solution instead of wasting time arguing. Pacing the distance between the X's, he finally brightened. "Okay, Miss Grell, what if we moved your harness back a few feet? That way there's enough clearance to do the other part without getting tangled." He walked closer to the back curtain, to show where he was talking about.

Grell watched him indicate the spot he was thinking, and hummed thoughtfully. "What about the speech? I'm meant to be front and center stage."

"Y'can still be fron' an' center," Eric chimed in. "We'll jus' leave extra slack in th' wires, so y'can walk forward, an' then when y'move back it can be taken in so nobody trips." He smiled cheerily, in a good mood, and both Grell and Ronald eyed the usually-more-gruff songwriter for a moment before moving on.

"It's a shame Alan and 'Deus aren't around, or we could test it..." Ronald mused.

"We'll have to do it later this afternoon, before the evening shift," Grell said. "Alan's having tea with the Duke, and 'Deus is showing a few prospective clients around." Other rich clients, not enough to be good patrons, but definitely the sort that they would want as regular visitors. Grell glanced out over the floor, and raised an eyebrow. "Hey!" She stormed down off the stage, marching over to one of the couches off to the side. A man had pulled one of the female courtesans into his lap, ignoring her protests as he groped at her. He finally paused when he realized Grell was glaring down at him with a look that could kill. " _What_ do you think you're doing?"

The man looked up, wide eyed. It was the stare of someone who knew they were in a ridiculous amount of trouble. He immediately let go of the girl he'd been molesting, and she scrambled to her feet, darting to duck behind Grell. "I, ah, was just..." the man attempted to explain.

"You were just," Grell mocked. "Just what? Groping one of my employees? _Not_ during the day, _not_ on the floor. Get out of my club. Now." Her voice was hard, leaving no room for argument.

"Hey! I paid to get in! I have a right to be here!" the man objected loudly.

"Not if you're breaking _my_ rules~" Grell said, sickly sweet. "And if you don't get out, I'll call security. They're big, strong men~ And Asmodeus. He has a knife~ And I can always go get the chainsaw from the scenery department..." She offered a slasher smile, sharp teeth flashing, and the man practically _sprinted_ for the front doors.

The girl he'd been molesting looked up at the Queen of the Moulin timidly. She'd only been there a few weeks and wasn't entirely used to the occasional handsy customers or Grell's fits of violence. "Th-Thank you, Miss Grell... Um... Would you really have gotten Asmodeus to stab him?"

"Of course not, dearest~" Grell said with a grin. "I'd have gotten the chainsaw first~"

The other employees within earshot laughed behind their hands before going back to work. Grell actually had pulled the chainsaw on a robber once. Poor man had nearly died of fright. Their Red Lady was a force to be reckoned with all on her own, security or no security.

Grell sashayed back to the stage, where Eric and Ronald were gaping at her incredulously, and beamed. "Now," she said, as if she hadn't just nearly threatened to eviscerate someone, "where were we?"

* * *

Down on the floor, Thomas Battenhall and Oliver Morrison were seated at one of the tables, meeting up for a rare, friendly cup of tea together. It wasn't that they didn't like each other, but each knew that the other was a rival for Alan's affections, and their respective schedules often kept them from being able to sit down to an afternoon chat.

One of the courtesans down on the floor nicked a waiter's tray, coming over to deliver their tea with a smile and a flirtatious wink. "Do let me know if you need anything else, Vicomte Battenhall, Baron Morrison," she said smoothly.

"Oh, we certainly will," Thomas replied, looking the girl over briefly before turning back to his table-mate. "So, Oliver," he asked as the girl walked away looking mildly disappointed, "how have you been?"

"Nothing notable has happened lately." Oliver took a sip of his tea, peering at the other noble over his glasses. "Life has been rather boring."

The bronze-haired vicomte raised an eyebrow. "Alan is notable, I would say. He's notable because he's never around anymore." It was conspicuous, considering that the Star Sapphire was usually entertaining some lucky gentlemen in the afternoons.

"Not on the floor, no," Oliver replied.

"That bloody duke is taking up all of his time. It's quite a shame."

"At least we still have evening appointments, even though he's been more distant at those too. We're really not getting our money's worth if his mind is elsewhere when he's meant to be catering to us." The blond baron shrugged, watching Thomas frown into his tea. When he finally looked away, he watched one of the waiters sliding down the railing on an opposite side of the room. The boy didn't spill a single drink, and Oliver's gaze lingered appreciatively on his ass as he headed for one of the tables near the other end of the room. It was a damn shame the waiters were off-limits...

Thomas interrupted his thoughts, commenting, "It cannot be bothering you much, can it? After all, Alan's just a toy to you. An amusing diversion."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Oh, don't pretend he's not the same to you. You just want him to fall for you so you can break his heart." The other noble liked to act like the nice guy, but Oliver knew better. Thomas was no better than him, he was just better at hiding his intentions. "And don't think for a second you've got Alan fooled."

Thomas waited a moment to respond, as at that moment another patron fled the club, loudly blathering something about chainsaws. But when the man had disappeared, he said plainly, "I know very well what Alan thinks of me. But it doesn't matter. He will do as he's told to please his clients. That's his purpose."

"Well, _you're_ not the one with an appointment tonight," Oliver said smugly. "So I suppose you'll have to wait a bit longer for your turn to be _pleased_."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Try to convince him to spend less time with that duke, then. Really, it's terribly unfair." This other noble, just coming in and monopolizing the main attraction's time... It was poor of the Duke to keep such a prized thing to himself.

"Maybe he should spend less time with the songwriter too."

Both Thomas and Oliver looked up at the blond courtesan who'd wandered up to their table. They'd seen him around before, his name was Alois, or something like that. He leaned on the back of one of the empty chairs and batted his eyes at them. "You said he's been spending so much time with the Duke, but he spends the rest of his free time with Eric Slingby~"

"Slingby?" Thomas questioned. "The one from the theatre troupe?"

"Yes. That one there." Alois pointed at the stage, where Grell had gone back to speaking with Eric and Ronald. Both vicomte and baron regarded the scruffy-looking blond man with disdain.

"He's hardly someone Alan would deign to pay attention to. He couldn't afford it," Thomas declared. "If they're spending any time together, it's likely only because of work." Making a shooing motion at Alois, the bronze-haired man said, "Go on. We haven't time for your idle gossip." The little blond courtesan was not someone either noble had a desire to court, and neither wanted to encourage him. He was too young, too loud, and too unpredictable.

Alois pouted and flounced off, muttering about how no one believed him. But when he was gone, the vicomte turned to Oliver. "Eric Slingby, hm? You were right earlier; Alan has been more distant at his appointments, recently. Do you think that could possibly be the reason?"

Oliver grinned. "I don't know...but I can certainly try to find out tonight. I already had a few plans." Slingby might want to play with their toy, but the noblemen didn't particularly feel like sharing with a poor writer. He didn't deserve to be within fifty feet of Alan.

"Good." Thomas nodded. They might be rivals, but turning on a potential third rival, especially one as lowly as the hired songwriter, was a fairly worthy cause. "It should be interesting to see what he says. I'm not sure I believe it, but if he is smitten with the songwriter, that's going to cause problems with the Duke, isn't it?"

"Oh, certainly," Oliver chuckled. "That will be worth watching." A grand drama, playing out behind the scenes of the one on stage. What could be more entertaining? He would hopefully learn more from Alan that evening, and then they could be privy to the potential conflicts that might manifest in the future.

* * *

Ronald and Grell had worked out the exact measurements of where she would need to stand to keep from tangling the wires, and with Eric's help, they were walking through it.

"All right, Miss Grell, for your speech, you should be standing about there, and we'll be here and here." Ronald pointed to a spot forward on the stage, and then nudged Eric towards his spot. "Eric, you're dead. Lie down."

"It's no' my part. We're not actually rehearsin'. Why d' I need t' lie down?" Eric objected.

"Realism!" Ronald chimed, scampering to his own position and looking appropriately awed by the appearance of the Goddess of Death. "Come onnnnnn!"

Eric sighed, but flopped to the stage, lolling his head in an exaggeratedly dead-looking pose. Neither Grell nor Ronald paid him any mind, as Grell came forward to begin her speech, paraphrasing parts of it since none of them had a script. "Your devotion to your love is a beautiful thing! And it will not end here at the claws of a demon. Begone, fell beast!" She gestured dramatically at Alois, who happened to be coming up the stairs on the appropriate side of the stage. Alois grinned, staggered melodramatically, and plopped down where he was to sit and watch them pantomime the rest of the scene.

"I will grant you your lover's soul!" Grell cried, wiggling her fingers at Eric's limp form. The songwriter grumbled, climbing back to his feet, and she continued, "But in the form of the divine, that your love may live on forever!"

"Miss Grell, you missed the whole part about how his soul was pure enough to cure the Thorns!" Ronald objected.

"It's no' tha' big a deal, Ronnie. This isn' a real rehearsal," Eric sighed, and Grell continued, stepping back to where Ronald had indicated.

She raised her hands up, lording herself over the stage and ad-libbing entirely now. "Go! Be together for all eternity!"

"Grell!" But Eric rolled his eyes and walked forward, meeting Ronald in the middle of the stage where Grell had been standing previously.

"And then they rise up on the wires, a triumphant final song plays, and the curtain goes down!" Ronald declared.

Alois burst into loud applause, and Grell grinned, obviously thrilled with the whole affair. "Oh, this will be perfect. We'll just have to get Alan and 'Deus out here to practice it, make sure everything runs smoothly."

Unconsciously, at the mention of Alan, Eric looked over his shoulder towards where the back rooms were, where Alan was having tea with Duke William. Alois caught the movement and brightened, delighted, scrambling to his feet. "Oh, Eric, are you pining for your courtesan~?" he teased, coming over to lean up against Eric's side.

Eric shrugged him off, frowning. "What makes ya think he's mine, 'r that I'm pinin'? Jus' wonderin' when he'll be back so we can go over this scene."

"Or you don't like him spending so much time with the Duke~"

The songwriter rolled his eyes. "Why would I care how much time he spends with th' Duke? It's his job, las' I checked. Doesn' matter t'me who he's spendin' time with or bangin'." Though, his neutral expression wavered a bit at that last part.

Alois's grin widened. "Don't worry, handsome, your bird won't sleep with the Duke...during the day."

"Alois!" Grell snapped, at the same time as Eric objected, "My 'bird'? What on earth're ya talkin' abou'?" Grell promptly shushed him, and said to Alois, "Don't you have lines to work on? You were supposed to be practicing with Claude."

"I got bored," Alois replied.

Grell scoffed. "I won't have the show be a wreck because you forget your lines mid-performance. I don't care if you only have a few. You still have to practice. If you ruin my moment in the spotlight..."

"All right, all right!" the blond grumbled, not wanting to be threatened with the chainsaw today. "I'll go practice!"

"Work until Claude says you can stop!"

_"Yes, Your Highness!"_ Alois shouted sarcastically, heading for the wings, and Grell sighed.

"Little brat. I don't know why I put up with him some days. Just ignore him, Eric."

That was easier said than done, though. He knew, obviously, that Alan had clients. He was still a courtesan; loving Eric didn't change that. But for some reason, the idea of him spending more time than necessary with the Duke rubbed the songwriter the wrong way. Eric managed to swallow his feelings as Grell began talking about how the opening sequence was going to be staged, and nodded along as Ronald explained it. He'd talk to Alan later. They'd work things out.


	15. Jealousy

When Alan finally was done having tea with the Duke, they returned to the main room, where Alan headed up onstage to see what Eric, Ronald, and Grell had been working on. Eric explained how they'd adjusted everyone's placement for the finale, and the courtesan nodded his approval of the changes.

"I had been worried about the wires getting tangled. That seems like it will work much better," he said, looking over the freshly-taped Xs on the floor.

"It's a shame 'Deus is doing tours this afternoon, or we could do a run-through right now," Grell pouted.

Alan offered a faint smile. "It's probably for the best. I can take this time to work on my lines with Mr. Slingby." He glanced at Eric, adding, "Do you mind if we work now instead of this evening? Unfortunately I have an appointment tonight."

"Nah, tha's fine," Eric shrugged, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "Head t' one o' th' back rooms where it's quiet?"

"Of course, give me just a moment." Alan hurried back down to bid a proper goodbye to the Duke, before returning to Eric's side. "All right, let's go."

Eric nodded, and bid his own goodbyes to Grell and Ronald before they set off across the stage towards the private practice rooms. When they were safely into one of the hallways and out of view, Alan slipped a hand into Eric's larger one and squeezed. "Is something wrong?"

"What makes ya think somethin's wrong?" the songwriter asked, and Alan scoffed.

"Reading people is part of my job, Eric," he said, walking into one of the empty practice rooms and closing the door once Eric had followed him in. "Being able to tell what a person is thinking can mean the difference between a client who will understand if I refuse something, and one who will grow violent. Now, please, what is wrong?"

"I jus'..." Eric scuffed his boot against the floor, unable to meet Alan's eyes. "Yer appointment t'night, it's not with th' Duke, is it?"

Alan raised an eyebrow. "No, I see Baron Morrison tonight." Eric made a disgruntled sound, and the courtesan walked over to cup his face in both hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. "You cannot do this. This is my job, Eric. I have to sleep with other people. You can't get jealous."

"'m not," Eric replied, but he looked guilty.

"Eric," Alan said quietly, managing a small smile. "I love you. You are the first person I've slept with in a very, very long time that I have truly wanted to. You have no reason to be jealous. You told me last night that you didn't care how many people I'd slept with."

"Tha's different..." Eric attempted to explain. "Tha's th' past. It's different, knowin' tha' someone else is gettin' t' touch ya now."

Alan leaned up to wrap his arms around the songwriter's neck, pressing up against him. "None of them mean anything to me, Eric. They are customers, nothing more. And I'm not going to sleep with the Duke unless I absolutely have to." He pressed a kiss to the corner of Eric's mouth. "So please," he murmured.

Eric wrapped his arms around the courtesan, giving him a kiss in return. "'m sorry. It's stupid. I mean, I knew y'd still have t'..."

"It's not stupid. Believe me. It's a perfectly reasonable response." Alan nuzzled him. "But I do love you, very much. So please don't worry."

"I'll try," Eric conceded, squeezing the brunet tightly for a moment before letting him go. "Better get t' rehearsin', jus' in case someone comes in." He unrolled the script from where he'd been clutching it in one hand, and flipped through. "What should we work on t'day?" He flopped down on the couch, watching Alan flip through his own script.

"I think the scene where the clerk tells the angel he loves him," Alan said, coming over to sit down and nestle against Eric's side. His eyes were bright as he looked up at Eric. "I know we've worked on it before, but I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing it."

That made the blond smile, and he leaned to kiss the top of Alan's head before finding that place in his own script. "O' course. Whatever ya think needs work..."

* * *

Sebastian Michaelis was nothing if not observant. That was a good thing, for a composer. He could spot the strengths and weaknesses of the musicians he composed for, could spot flaws in a composition with ease, and could hear missed or wrong notes in a piece with little trouble. This also meant he could spot other things, as well, and Alan Humphries holding hands with Eric Slingby as they walked down the hallway towards the practice rooms was something noteworthy.

They'd been surprisingly close, recently, considering Alan's aloof nature and Eric's general unfamiliarity with the world of brothels and courtesans. It had been a little over a month since Eric had joined them, and while that seemed like enough time to make friends, Sebastian was a bit suspicious of just how friendly they seemed to be.

He kept his thoughts to himself for the moment, continuing his pacing up and down the back halls, gripping at doorframes and stacks of crates as he learned to balance in the ridiculous stiletto heels Nina had crafted for his costume. While he understood her vision, he didn't understand why the boots had to be quite so high. It was more of an inconvenience than anything.

About half an hour later, while walking the side hallway that led to the kitchens and infirmary, he bumped into Asmodeus, who had finally finished his tour and was heading in the direction of the kitchen.

"Hey, Sebs!" the courtesan said, smiling when he spotted his friend. "How are the shoes going? Getting any better?"

"Marginally. It's a slow process," Sebastian admitted. "Thankfully there's still almost two months to the show. How was your tour?"

Asmodeus shrugged. "Same old, same old. Everyone is so _fascinated_ by all the different rooms. I swear we get at least one aspiring interior decorator in here every time I do this. And we had one guy who was waaaaaay too interested in the dungeon setup down in the public basement." The club had two basements; the private one was for actual storage, while the public one had been set up for those interested in the more extreme forms of bondage or dominant/submissive play.

Sebastian wobbled along beside him the rest of the way to the kitchen, raising an eyebrow. "I would think people like that are few and far between."

"Eh, we get more than you'd think. I don't play down there much. I'm all for bondage, but some of that stuff is outside of my comfort zone."

"You have a comfort zone? I never would have guessed," Sebastian teased.

"Oh shut up." Asmodeus grinned, going to the cabinets. "Tea?"

"If you wouldn't mind." Finally making it to the table, Sebastian sank into a chair, stretching his feet out in front of him. "These are the most impractical shoes. Miss Nina is brilliant, but..."

Asmodeus chuckled. "There's a reason we call her our Mad Tailor." He brought over the tea, passing Sebastian his cup and taking a seat as well.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their tea while Sebastian gave his feet a rest. But eventually the musician looked up, asking curiously, "Have you noticed anything odd with Alan and Eric, lately?"

"Odd?" Asmodeus hummed, but he looked wary. "What do you mean by odd?"

"They seem to be awfully close lately."

"Well, they're working on the show together. Of course they're going to be spending time together," the courtesan shrugged. "What's the big deal?"

Sebastian frowned. "Whatever is between the two of them looks quite a bit like infatuation, honestly," he said, setting his tea aside. "If they upset the Duke, it could cause trouble for all of us. Our troupe needs this work, and the Moulin can't suffer a man of the Duke's influence insulting the reputation that Ms. Sutcliffe has worked so hard to build."

Biting his lip, Asmodeus sighed. "So long as they are careful, there will be little issue," he said. "Alan is happy, and that is all I want for him. I am not going to tell him that he cannot have a relationship when he has finally found someone he cares for."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. The way Asmodeus was talking, things had gone far past 'infatuation' already. He took a sip of his tea, considering. So long as they were careful...it was not particularly his problem, unless they were discovered. "Slingby? I cannot speak much of Mr. Humphries taste," Sebastian huffed. Honestly, the man was a ruffian. "But at the very least, we must continue to keep an eye on them. This could end very badly."

"Ideally the Duke will leave after the show, when he realizes that Alan does not reciprocate whatever affection he holds. And then it will no longer be an issue," Asmodeus said. That was all they could hope for, really. Sebastian was right; the Duke had the power to hurt them. But Alan's happiness was too important to the violet-haired courtesan to not allow them to take a chance.

Sebastian sighed into his tea, taking a long sip. "I suppose you are right. That would be ideal. But we must be prepared for a less-than-ideal scenario."

"You're such a pessimist sometimes."

"You're too much of a romantic."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Getting up to put his cup in the sink, Asmodeus winked. "I'm not going to let anything happen to them. That's my job, isn't it?" Sebastian just smiled wryly at his friend's optimism, and the courtesan waved, heading back out towards the floor. He could still get in some time before dinner and Alan's appointment with Baron Morrison. Oliver needed watching, at the very least. Sometimes his desire to compete with Thomas got a bit out of hand, after all.

* * *

That evening, Alan met Baron Morrison in a room designed to look like the inside of an ice palace. Everything was pale blue and white, with lots of silver, glass, and crystal. When he inquired politely why Oliver had chosen the room, the blond man smiled.

"I overheard someone mention it a few visits ago and was curious. It's a very aesthetically pleasing decor. Clean lines, smooth finishes...very open," Oliver explained. "And you look lovely."

Alan was in white, having known ahead of time what room Oliver had picked. Sheer stockings, lacy garters and undergarments, and a silky negligee gave off the impression of vulnerability, which combined with Alan's actual personality provided a contrast that the baron apparently found appealing, if his approving look was anything to go by.

The courtesan sat down on the bed, reclining back on his hands. He regarded Oliver with a faux-lazy gaze, replying, "Thank you, Baron Morrison. I'm glad you approve~"

Oliver came close, pressing a kiss to his jaw. He was one of the few that had never argued Alan's distaste for kissing his clients, and for that the brunet was at least appreciative. "You look like an ice prince, all alone in a frozen castle, with just me to keep you warm..."

_Eric. I have Eric,_ Alan thought, but he just smiled and reached up to thread his fingers into Oliver's platinum hair. "Why don't you see how warm I can be?"

Teasing, touches, it was all almost routine at this point. Alan played along with Oliver's banter, trying to force himself not to think of Eric. As he'd told the songwriter, this was his job. Eric couldn't afford to be jealous, and he couldn't afford to be distracted. He shifted enough to allow the negligee to be pulled over his head, shivered as nimble fingers undid his garters, and made a soft, content sound as kisses were laid down his leg in the wake of stockings being removed. But it was evident that he was not as enthusiastic as he usually was, and when Oliver showed him what he wanted to do this evening, he just nodded, letting the baron do as he pleased.

It was easy enough to go along with the restraints. Asmodeus was always right outside the door when he played with Oliver because the other often favored things like this, and they'd been doing this long enough that Alan was fairly comfortable around the young baron. Oliver had never done anything to hurt him, or pushed him beyond what was consented to.

Tonight was a simple rope binding around his wrists, tied over a soft scarf to keep the ropes from chafing against skin. It was a rule that clients couldn't leave marks, but Oliver seemed to be an attentive enough top to not want to cause undue damage to his toy.

The blond aristocrat made a content sound, dragging his fingernails lightly over Alan’s bare stomach and smirking as he squirmed. "You've been rather subdued tonight, Alan. More of an ice prince than usual, I must admit." The tone sounded innocent enough, but Oliver was known for being able to chatter idly about the weather while doing absolutely _wicked_ things to someone, so Alan wasn't fooled.

"I'm fine..." he managed, trying not to react to the ticklish touch. "There's been a lot to do for the show..."

"Really? Because I've heard a rumor about you and your new beau. How could you do such a thing to Thomas and me?" Oliver teased.

Alan blinked, shocked. But he covered it up as well as he could and replied evenly, "Beau? I'm not sure what you mean."

_How had Morrison found out?_

"Of course you're not," Oliver chuckled, beginning to touch lightly, surely, rousing Alan a bit at a time with careful fingers on sensitive spots, until he could slip the lacy undergarments down and wrap a hand around the brunet's length, stroking him to full hardness.

"Nnnnhh..." The courtesan tugged at the restraints reflexively. "You're being - aah! - particularly teasing tonight."

The baron grinned evilly, slipping a ring around the base of Alan's cock snugly. "That's because I'm playing for information this time, my dear Alan. I'm not going to let you come until you tell me about Eric Slingby."

Alan swallowed hard. As strange as it might sound to say that he trusted Oliver with his body but not his secrets, it was the truth. He brought his knees up, squirming as the other man continued to rub at the head of his cock with two fingers, and said bluntly, "He's the songwriter working on the show, he's Scottish, he's taller than me, Asmodeus thinks he's amusing, Grell thinks he's handsome... Is that enough?"

"You know what I meant. Tell me about _you_ and Eric," Oliver laughed, shifting away to begin undressing. Alan watched, unconsciously comparing him to Eric. It wasn't that Oliver wasn't attractive, but the courtesan just couldn't help himself.

To attempt to regain a bit of control over the situation, he huffed, "It's really none of your business about me and Eric, but he's helping me rehearse for the show. Especially the singing parts." He really wished the other man would drop this line of conversation. It was hard to think straight when his erection was demanding attention, and the ring certainly wasn't helping.

Oliver returned to settle beside him, equally as bare as the courtesan. "It is most certainly my business, if someone is getting to play for free..." he said, pushing Alan's knees back down and leaning over him to watch his face as he began to stroke the brunet lazily. "Especially someone as unworthy as the songwriter."

Alan writhed, frustrated. "So there isn't allowed to be one person who treats me as a person rather than a thing to be bought? I'm not allowed to love someone?" he snapped, then cursed his temper as he realized what he'd blurted out.

"I thought that would get you," Oliver said with a grin. He slowed his hand, but didn't stop, and kissed Alan's neck. "Think of what would happen if the Duke found out, Alan~"

That was finally enough to distract him from the frustration of not being able to come, because in that moment Alan realized that he was actually scared of what might happen if the Duke found out. Duke William didn't seem to be a particularly lenient man, and until Alan could break the news to him on his own, preferably the night of the show, he wanted it to stay a secret. He stared at Oliver, uncertain what to even say in his own defense and feeling short of breath, and the baron laughed.

"Relax, Alan. I am not overly fond of Duke William either. He practically radiates disdain every time he's in the building," he said. "This simply gives me the opportunity to hold this information over Thomas."

"You both...are so petty..." Alan huffed, wriggling uncomfortably at his now-painful arousal. But at least he no longer had a reason to panic. The blond nobleman was a man of his word, at the very least. If he said he wouldn't tell Duke William, he wouldn't.

"Yes, but it's amusing," Oliver countered. "I suppose I can allow you to come now. Would you like that?"

Smug, condescending snake. Alan bit back a growl of frustration and instead managed, "Yes, please, Oliver-!" with just the right amount of begging. The platinum-haired man smirked, but slipped the ring off and stroked quickly and with just the right amount of grip to get Alan to arch off the bed and cry out with release. As he lay there, catching his breath and coming down, Oliver reached up and undid his bonds.

"I feel like I've done quite enough to you already this evening, so finish me off, and we will be done here."

Alan shut his eyes, resisting the urge to make a snarky comment, and sat up. Handjob for Oliver it was. The sooner he could get the nobleman to come, the sooner he could go shower.

Maybe it would be worth it to start turning down his regulars in favor of working on the show. At least then, all he'd have to deal with was the Duke...


	16. Suspicions

Baron Morrison was as good as his word, and nothing changed over the following weeks. Other than a few knowing looks from Vicomte Battenhall during his next appointment, Alan heard nothing about his relationship from anyone, most importantly Grell or the Duke. He continued spending what time he could with Eric without being suspicious, and Ronald and Asmodeus were both helping to cover for him. 

Eric reined in his jealousy as best he could, but it definitely helped that Alan was only seeing a select few regular clients. If things were like they had been before the show rehearsals started, when Alan saw at least one client a night almost every day, he would have had a much harder time coping with the knowledge that someone else was touching the person he loved.

As the end of November approached, days began to get colder, and everyone started to get out their wintery clothes. Alan often turned up at Eric's in luxurious coats, gifts from clients past, and Grell paraded around in furs and velvet, blatantly showing off. But a few days from the end of November, there was an uncharacteristically warm day, and Grell declared that she and a few select others were going to take advantage of the weather and spend the afternoon going on a picnic. She chose the writers and the four leading actors in the show to come along and made the announcement early that morning, insisting that they be ready to leave by eleven o'clock.

"Is this allowed?" Eric asked Ronald as the younger blond helped fold picnic blankets.

Ronald shrugged. "Well, Grell's in charge. If she says we're going on a day trip, we're going on a day trip." It wasn't that far of a distance to the outside of the city, where there were open fields and groves of trees and plenty of space for people to relax and enjoy the warm weather. "Come on, we get to just goof off for the day. It'll be fun!"

Out in the hall, Alan walked by the doorway wearing a sun hat and a loose shirt, and Eric grinned before stuffing another blanket in the bag. "Oi!" he called, as Asmodeus practically skipped by too. "Come help carry stuff, ya lazybones!"

Asmodeus reappeared, followed by Mei, who'd happened to be on her way by, but Alan's absence was distinct. Eric looked the other courtesan over, before scoffing. "Alan didn' want t' help carry anythin'?"

Asmodeus shook his head. "He's got to go catch up with the Duke. Duke William asked him to ride with him for the trip. He's taking a carriage on his own; he can't be bothered to ride with the rest of us lower-class prostitutes."

"Wait..." Eric blinked. "Th' Duke's comin'? I thought Grell was only bringin' employees."

"He's the Moulin's patron," Asmodeus shrugged.

Mei made a face. "He's too serious," she said, fiddling with her glasses. "Why's he even in a place like this? He doesn't seem to like us at all."

Ronald leaned over to kiss the redhead on the cheek. "Eh, don't mind him. We're hoping he goes away after the show, right Eric?"

"Why would he go away after the show?" Mei asked curiously.

"B'cause he's only here f'r Alan, an' Alan doesn' like him much." Eric stuffed the rest of the blankets into the basket to carry them, and waved at the other baskets of food. "C'mon, grab something. We're gonna be late at this rate. Grell migh' leave us here." Maybe a day off was exactly what they all needed to unwind before Christmas and the show. Eric had had a bad feeling lately, and it had nothing to do with jealousy. Hopefully this would be enough to chase it off.

* * *

Grell chose a nice, grassy hill just outside of the city for the picnic. She, the Duke, and Alan started up the hill, with Eric, Asmodeus, and a small handful of others trailing behind. The core group involved in the show had come so that they could sit around and chat about how everything was coming together. Undertaker was left in charge of the Moulin in Grell's absence, and Sebastian and Ciel had declined Grell's invitation of "come along, but try to ditch the brat", citing lots of work to be done memorizing their lines. So it was Grell, Duke William, Alan, Eric, Asmodeus, and Ronald trekking up the hill with blankets and food in tow. It was a lovely place. The dirt path gave way to soft grass and a last few wildflowers. The top of the hill held a copse of trees, and though their leaves had already dried and fallen, the group still murmured approvingly as they glanced about.

"Look, a pigeon," Duke William said, pointing it out with a small smile. Dumbfounded by the unfamiliar expression on the man's face, Alan followed where he was pointing, seeing a perfectly ordinary pigeon perched on a nearby branch. "Pigeons are wonderful birds. That one is a common rock dove."

The Duke was interested in a subject that wasn't business? Alan wasn't entirely positive how this pigeon was any different than the ones that flitted about the streets in the city, but he listened attentively as Duke William explained that there were roughly three different species of pigeons that could be found in Paris, and that the extinct dodo was technically a type of pigeon. Of all the things for the dark-haired man to have a passion for, it had to be something as common as pigeons. But he didn't want to upset the Duke by seeming like he didn't care, so Alan let him continue talking until Eric called the courtesan away to help lay out blankets. Alan hurried off after apologizing for interrupting, exceedingly grateful for the escape.

Once everything was laid out on the grass, they settled down to eat, chatting about how the show was going. Thankfully the topic distracted the Duke from his pigeons, and Alan sat between him and Eric, trying not to be biased in how much attention he paid each of them.

"Miss Nina's almost finished with the costumes for the backup dancers. That'll be a few more days," Ronald said, taking a large bite of his sandwich. He continued with his mouth full, "Then we can run a rehearsal in full costume. We were planning to start script-less run-throughs next week."

"Everyone should have their lines memorized by now," Grell huffed. "It's been almost two months since the casting. If they want to be proper stage performers, they need to be able to learn their lines."

Alan smiled faintly. "Do you know all of your lines, Grell?"

The redhead bristled a bit. "...all but the last monologue. I'll get it!"

"What about you, Alan?" Duke William asked. "You've been spending so much time working with our songwriter; your lines should be perfect." There was an underlying edge of irritation in his voice, but Alan didn't really notice, instead glancing over at Eric and smiling. It was a bright, genuine smile, and it made him look so vibrant.

"Yes, Eric's been very helpful. I want to work on the aria a bit more, just to be certain all the notes are right, but I've learned all of my lines. I can't wait to do a full run-through and see how it all comes together." 

Eric didn't notice the Duke's apparent irritation either, but Grell did, and she looked between the three of them suspiciously. "Just make sure you're not getting distracted, darling," she said lightly, and Alan shook his head.

"Of course not!"

* * *

Once the sandwiches were gone, mostly courtesy of Ronald and Eric, they packed away the dirty dishes and the two writers managed to convince Asmodeus to come play with them. They'd grabbed a ball on the way out of the Moulin, and ended up playing keep-away, with Ronald as the poor chaser.

"Guys, I didn't agree to play this at all!" he objected. Ronald was by no means out of shape, but compared to the wiry courtesan and the taller songwriter, he was at a disadvantage.  
"Well, we tried to get Alan to play so we could play football, but he wanted to let his food digest more," Asmodeus laughed, ducking around the younger and kicking the ball to Eric.

"Once he's up, we'll play somethin' else, but 'til then, y've gotta try t'get th' ball," Eric teased.

Ronald growled, throwing himself at them, determined to prove he was just as skilled as they were. Over by the picnic blankets, Grell was relaxing in the sun, eating strawberries, and Alan had stretched out to doze in the warmth as well. The courtesan felt his eyes drifting shut, but jerked back awake at the feeling of fingers in his hair. Duke William had reached out and was playing with the brunet strands absently. 

"Your Grace...?" Alan questioned. William didn't usually touch him out of the blue. What was going on?

William raised an eyebrow at him. "The show is coming together well?"

"Yes..." Alan shifted enough to see the dark-haired man better, shielding his eyes against the sun. "Things are going very well."

"Then I do wonder," William said, "why you continue to refuse my invitations to dinner, if things are going so well." He glanced back at the trio kicking their ball around, eyes lingering on the songwriter for a moment before shifting back to Alan. In a deceptively light tone, he said, "Surely a single night off will not harm the final product. Or should I assume you prefer the writers' company to my own?"

Alan sat up, looking troubled. "Of course not, Duke William. I just take my performances very seriously, and you've invested a great deal into this show. I want it to be a success."

"Just one night, Alan," William pressed. "While I admire your work ethic, it's rather upsetting how little time we get to spend alone together."

"LOOK OUT!" Ronald shouted. He'd finally managed to kick the ball away from Eric, but had kicked it too hard. "Alan, grab it!"

The ball sailed right past Alan and William, bouncing down the semi-steep hill that they'd climbed to get to Grell's self-proclaimed "perfect picnic spot". Alan scrambled to his feet, mumbling an apology to the Duke before setting off after it. Any excuse to get off the topic of going to dinner. He knew for a fact that Duke William would try to seduce him the minute he got him alone, and he wanted no part of that. He picked up the ball and started back up the hill, looking up at a call of his name. 

"Alan, did ya get it?" Eric called, making his way down the hill towards the courtesan. "Sorry, we didn' mean t'interrupt yer chat with th'--" The blond songwriter tripped over a clump of grass, tumbling down the hill. Alan tried to dodge, but Eric knocked him over, and the courtesan ended up landing on top of him. Eric looked sheepish, once they rolled to a stop. "Are ya okay? Sorry..."

"I'm fine. I had something to land on," Alan teased. "Be more careful, next time." 

"It's Ronald's fault the ball is even down here!" Eric reached up to pull Alan's head down for a brief kiss, savoring it for a second before they had to climb back up and go back to pretending to be just coworkers. Neither saw Grell peering over the top of the hill. She'd wondered what was taking so long and come to make sure they hadn't hurt themselves, but instead found them like that. For a second, it had been hard to process what she was seeing, but then she realized, and froze. Alan, kissing Eric. Alan hated kissing people. If Alan was making out with Eric, not only was he damn lucky in Grell’s personal opinion, it could only mean that there was some sort of romance there. And that, in terms of business, had the potential to be very bad indeed. Torn, she walked back over towards her blanket.

Once the initial shock had passed, it was hard to be surprised. There had been rumors flying for weeks that Alan was carrying on some sort of illicit affair with the handsome blond songwriter. On the one hand, how deliciously taboo! Forbidden love was always an entertaining thing, and she loved a good, romantic drama as much as the next girl~ But on the other, the Duke didn't seem to be the sort who would take this kind of thing lightly. And if he left, the Moulin would suffer. They didn't have the funds to put on this show if their patron withdrew his money. She had thought Alan was smart enough not to jeopardize himself, plus everyone else who worked at the Moulin, but apparently he was having a bit too much fun fooling around with Eric Slingby. Grell sighed, coming to a decision and calling to Alan as the two appeared at the top of the hill. "Alan, darling, will you walk with me a moment? I have a question about these wildflowers over here."

Alan smiled and nodded, following Grell as she led them a bit away from the picnic, out of earshot of the Duke. However, his expression faltered when Grell asked, "What do you think you are doing?"

"I don't know what you mean, Grell," he said, looking even more confused than before.

"Whatever is going on with you and Eric needs to stop," Grell said firmly.

The courtesan blinked at her. "There's nothing going on with--"

"I saw you! Down the hill, kissing him. You hate kissing clients." Scowling, Grell put a hand on her hip. "Alan, I know he's a fine specimen of a man, but you can't do this. We can't risk upsetting the Duke."

Alan's eyes narrowed. "I'm not upsetting the Duke. He doesn't even have to know."

Grell glared right back. "He'll find out eventually, especially if you keep blowing him off for dinner." She shook her head. "I won't tell you to break things off with Eric, then, even if it's for the best, but you _will_ go to dinner with the Duke tonight. No discussion. Now go tell him you accept his invitation."

Alan hesitated, then nodded, managing a smile as if they'd just had a friendly chat about wildflowers before heading back over to where the Duke was waiting. "My apologies, Duke William. Honestly, I'd thought Ms. Grell would know how to identify lady slippers on sight." He faked a chuckle, before focusing emerald eyes on the Duke. "I would be honored to accept your invitation to dinner tonight, as well. I apologize for spending so little time with you lately." Every word was like a razor on his tongue, but Grell would have his head or Eric's if he didn't do this.

"Oh?" The Duke seemed mildly bemused by Alan's apparent change of heart, but opted not to mention it. "Very well, then. I shall arrange for dinner tonight at seven in the gothic tower. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, of course," Alan replied, nodding. He'd get through it somehow. He had to.

* * *

As afternoon wore on, Alan ended up joining in the game eventually. The Duke and Grell declined to play, even though they were asked multiple times, so the teams were a fairly even match. Alan and Asmodeus eventually crushed Eric and Ronald, scoring the last goal of the agreed-upon number with a dramatic dodge around the tall songwriter and a perfect pass to kick the ball past Ronald's grasping fingers.

They had just enough time to celebrate, and then Alan caught Asmodeus's arm, requesting, "I have to go to dinner with the Duke tonight. Will you come help me get ready?"

"Th' Duke?" Eric asked, overhearing. "I thought we--"

"I'm sorry, Eric, I have to." Alan looked apologetic before turning away. "'Deus, please?"

The other courtesan nodded, glancing at Eric before following Alan back towards the carriages. Bypassing the Duke's carriage, they got into one of the two from the Moulin, setting off towards home. Both opted to ride up in the box, and Asmodeus, once they were moving, looked over at Alan. "Is there a reason you've suddenly decided to entertain Duke William's invitation?"

"I need to. I've been putting it off for too long," Alan mumbled unconvincingly.

Asmodeus sighed. "Alan, please don't lie. Come on, you know that's not why. What happened?"

Alan cringed. "Grell saw. She saw me kiss Eric."

"Alan..." Asmodeus bit his lip, uncertain. On the one hand, he wanted Alan to be happy. But on the other hand, he almost agreed with Grell. The Moulin Rouge needed the Duke's patronage. And if the Duke was going to withdraw funding on the basis that Alan was seeing someone else... "Why would you do that, when we're all out here together?"

"I just did! It was normal. I wanted to." Alan sunk down in his seat, looking small and ashamed. "I hate this, 'Deus."

"I know, I know..."

Things were quiet for the rest of the drive home, but when they went inside and into the costume room to choose something fitting and fancy to wear to dinner, Alan balked. "I don't want to dress as a courtesan. Can't I just wear dress pants and a nice shirt?"

"The Duke is expecting--" Asmodeus began, but Alan cut him off, scowling furiously.

"I know what the Duke is expecting!" Alan cried. "I know what he wants, and I do not want to encourage him! The minute he gets me alone, he’s going to try to seduce me, and I don't... I don't want that until I absolutely h-have to." He wrapped his arms around himself, his breath coming quick and shallow. "He j-just wants m-me because I'm the... the most valuable courtesan h-here. He doesn't c-care about me at...all..." Alan hunched over, beginning to cough. The coughs shook his slender body, and he dropped to his knees, managing a shallow gasp. Asmodeus's eyes widened, and he dashed over to shout down the hall for Undertaker before dropping down to wrap his arms around Alan and keep him upright.

"No, no, Alan, come on. Breathe. It's okay. You're fine..." he muttered, holding the wheezing courtesan as tight as he dared. Alan leaned heavily against him, still coughing, curling in on himself as much as he could.

Undertaker wandered in, carrying a perfume bottle. "Right 'ere, Asmodeus~"

"Do something!" the violet-haired courtesan almost yelled.

"Calm yourself," Undertaker chided, kneeling. His long robes billowed as he knelt down beside them and held up the perfume bottle. "Othello and I've been working on something for just such an occasion. 'e needs t' breathe it in. Hold 'im up." He held the nozzle of the perfume bottle to Alan's mouth, spraying a tiny bit in as he gasped. "Come now, Mr. Humphries. You'll be all right."

Alan continued to wheeze, but his breaths got deeper and he managed to inhale more of the medicine, whatever it was. Finally he was able to breathe without coughing, and Asmodeus helped him up. "How do you feel?"

"Better..." Alan's voice was weak, and he glanced at Undertaker. "What...is that?"

"Just some medicine Othello cooked up. We haven't really tested it, but it'll keep you on your feet," Undertaker replied, giggling. "For the most part, anyway."

Asmodeus looked aghast that they'd give Alan something that hadn't been tested, even if Undertaker's protégé was behind it, but Alan tried to step towards the wardrobe, forcing Asmodeus to hold him back. "I have to get dressed..." Alan muttered, and when the giggling doctor made a questioning noise, he continued, "I've got to go to dinner with the Duke..."

"Not after an attack like 'at you're not. Doctor's order," Undertaker said. "You're going to go lie down. The Duke can 'ave 'is dinner on 'is own."

Alan tried not to look too relieved by this pronouncement, but he couldn't help but smile weakly as he held onto Asmodeus for support. "All right..."

"Get 'im t' bed, 'Deus, and don't let 'im up." Undertaker shook a long-nailed finger at them, and then headed off to go back to whatever he had been doing.

Asmodeus glanced at Alan, then pulled the brunet's arm over his shoulder. "C'mon, Alan. Let's get you upstairs." Thankfully the younger was okay, but now they would have to deal with an extremely disappointed Duke. Hopefully that wouldn't cause any problems.

* * *

Duke William was not pleased. It was now half-past seven, and Grell Sutcliffe had appeared five minutes ago to inform him that Alan could not meet with him for dinner after all. The courtesan had fallen ill, she'd said, and would have to reschedule. The Duke had informed her that it was fine, but after she was gone, he'd frowned at Lawrence.

"Honestly... Does she really expect me to believe that?" he huffed, folding his arms irritably. "It does not surprise me at this point that he would come up with some sort of excuse. It's that blasted songwriter, I just know it."

Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "You think that the songwriter is trying to steal him?"

"I think he has captured Alan's affections, and that will not do." William walked over to pick up one of the wineglasses, abandoned like their dinner plans, and took a sip. "I am not putting all of this money into this place purely because I _believe_ in them. I expect my due in return. Alan Humphries is the jewel of this place, and I will have him."

"So what can be done?" Lawrence asked. "You do not own him, and you have said previously that you have no intentions of paying the amount required to own him just for the evening."

William drained the remainder of the wineglass, setting it back on the table. "I have an idea. If they wish to continue enjoying the benefits of my patronage, they will have to yield to my terms." He smirked. "I will have the Moulin Rouge to gain Alan. And if the songwriter continues to interfere, well..." He glanced at Lawrence, who laid a hand on the gun at his side.

"We'll find a way to...deal with him."


	17. Bonus Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This doesn't fit EXACTLY after chapter 15, but my girlfriend thought it was a damn shame to miss the opportunity to have Grell and Will doing "Like a Virgin", so she wrote up this lovely bonus chapter for me. And considering it made me cringe the same way the scene in the movie does, I'd consider it a resounding success. So, enjoy~!

The silk of Grell’s glove gave her knock a delicate muteness when she arrived at the Gothic Tower. Once again, she was to be the bearer of bad news. She _wanted_ to gnash her teeth in frustration at the _silly lovesick naïve fool_ that was her Star Sapphire, but like a true professional she flashed them instead in a winning smile when Duke William opened the door. His own face betrayed little, except for the frown line on his forehead becoming more pronounced.

“Good evening, my dear Duke,” Grell said with a flourishing curtsey. Before she could continue, William interrupted her.

“I grow impatient, Madam Sutcliffe. You are here because Alan cannot come _again_ , correct?”

“Darling, darling—“

“Enough!” He snapped, turning away. “Perhaps I have made a mistake, putting my money into this hovel. Rehearsals are a convenient excuse, but I have no choice but to believe your little Sapphire doesn’t care about my generosity.”

Grell stepped into the room and grabbed his arm. “Please, dear Duke, if you’ll only listen—“

The Duke snatched his arm away, a vaguely disgusted twist to his mouth. “As much as I’m financing this place, I should simply level it and build something worthwhile _and reliable._ ”

She could have clawed his eyes out for such a threat. But she breathed, she batted her eyes, she simpered, “You poor dear. These are stressful times for us all. I’m dearly sorry Alan cannot accompany you as much as you’d please, but he does this all for you.” She took his hand and pressed it between hers. “He only wants to make the debut of the new-and-improved Moulin Rouge as successful as can be, so that you may be proud.”

“Yet he cannot spare a _single_ evening?”

“Not a one!” Grell replied brightly, and to stave off the tantrum of such an undesirable answer, she pulled him further into his little sitting room. “Believe me, love, I know how it feels to be deprived of the comfort of company. Allow me to entertain you this evening.” She pushed him into a chair, and at least he sat down willingly enough. Grell strode around him, dragging her hand along his shoulder. “It’s rare anyone has the privilege of being entertained by our secret Radiant Ruby~”

Duke William frowned ahead, stiff as ever. “It is the Sapphire I believe I paid for, Sutcliffe.”

_Rude!_ She let the slip of title go. “Oh, darling,” she sighed, and bent over the back of the chair, sliding her hands down his chest, “I’m afraid you just don’t understand the mind of a blushing flower in bloom.”

He tried to shove her off and she pointedly ignored the attempt. He turned his head to glare at her. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“Why, you’re a smart man, Duke. And I’m sure you have a trail of broken hearts behind you.” She began circling the chair again, one finger trailing his jaw.

“I—stop that!—I don’t follow.”

“You’re too sweet to see! He loves you, obviously!” Grell suddenly perched herself on his knee, hands linked loosely around his neck. The Duke was too stunned to push her away.

“Has he said so?”

“What are words to a lovesick heart?” she crooned. “Little Alan has worked here for so long, we feared he had forgotten what it meant to really be attracted to someone. But now you come along and—well, he’s never been so shy around a client, shall we say!”

William looked down thoughtfully. Alan was indeed quite timid in his presence. Grell latched on.

“Dear Duke, what you’ve taken for aloofness and flippancy are merely nerves. You’ve awakened something new in him.” Well, Alan had never been one to hate before, anyway. “He’s like a blushing bride. Duke William, you make him feel…” Grell tittered, as if she felt it improper to go on.

Suddenly William didn’t seem to mind her invasion of personal space. “What? Feel what?”

Grell leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “…like a virgin.”

William went red.

“He confides in me, dear.” Grell’s breath was hot on his ear, and she ran silked fingers along the other side of his neck. “He tells me he feels so good inside when you _hold_ him.” She snuggled closer into his lap. The Duke was, after all, quite handsome. “When you _touch_ him…” Her hand slid beneath the collar of his shirt.

The Duke’s breath was incredibly shaky already. Perhaps she needed to dial back. Poor dear was so unused to these attentions, no wonder he was such a prick about their business. But handsome is as handsome does, and she found she very much enjoyed rattling the old stiff this way. Ooh, speaking of stiff…

“Like a… virgin, you say?” Ah, so that really is his kink.

“Yes, your Nobleness,” Grell giggled. “Alan has been through so much. He didn’t know how lost he was until he found you. He’s been beat, incomplete, ooh,” she sighed mournfully, “he’s been had, been sad and blue. But you! You make him feel… yes, you make him feel shiny and new—like a virgin!”

Taking him by surprise, the real star of the Moulin Rouge pulled Duke William out of his chair, shouting joyfully, “Touched for the very first time! Like a virgin, when your hearts beat, he said, both in time.”

“Dear Lord, what are you going on about?” William shouted, snapped out of the fever he’d begun to slip into. He stumbled as Grell twirled him around the room. As if on cue, the waiters formed two rows and held up their arms, allowing Madam Sutcliffe and Duke William to trip along the length of the tunnel gaily.

Grell leaped into his arms, hanging onto his neck with such incredible strength that he held her more to keep from pitching over than anything. “He looks upon his consummation with you as a consummation of a marriage. His fear is fading fast, for he knows only your love can last.”

“Y-yes,” panted the Duke, trying to place her back on her feet, only to be spun and swept away to the balcony behind the dinner table. They trailed a string of prancing waiters behind them.

The air outside was crisp, the stars as clear as the can get in a city such as theirs. Grell reclined in William’s arms once again, forcing him to hold her awkwardly. Her staff surrounded them, crooning and chattering nonsense excitedly as a crowd of extras in a play would. William was outnumbered and simply swept along in their exclamations along the lines of “lovely!” “lucky!” and “how fine!”

The Radiant Ruby nuzzled up to the Duke. “He’s so fine, and he’ll be yours ‘til the end of time! Because…” She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a huge red lipstick stain.

He actually replied, dazed by the activity, “Because… I make him feel…”

“Like a virgin~!”

And with that she pulled him back inside by both hands. On one wall of the Gothic Tower sat a grand canopy bed, onto which William landed with the proprietress of the Moulin Rouge bent over him.

There was a pause as they stared at one another, breathing hard, hot from the spinning and dancing. William breathed, “He’s so fine.”

“Yes.”

“And he’s mine.”

“Yes.”

Grell suddenly became quite focused on the neck his rumpled clothing revealed, but he seemed to look past her. “He makes me strong—bold! He’s th-thawed what made me c-cold.”

Only business made Grell force herself to sit up and gently step away to let him have his moment. She didn’t think he even noticed the little mark she made below his collar. But he was getting wrapped up in lust for Alan—much preferable to anger at the Moulin.

But William had slipped back into that heated state he’d been jolted out of earlier. He rose, his eyes locking onto Grell with electrifying intensity. Her eyes widened, and even as she took a step back she smiled.

He advanced on her. She took off.

“Tell me more!” he shouted, “Like a virgin, you say?” She had dodged around the dining table, but her own staff lifted the Duke gracefully up and over the obstacle—cheeky, well-trained buggers!—and she continued to flit about.

“Yes, dear Duke, like a virgin!”

“Touched for the _very_ first time?”

“Yes!”

As she fled, many hands gripped her waist and arms and hoisted her on top of a chaise lounge. She turned, confused, to see the rest of the waiters force William into her space in much the same way. She made to move away and continue the chase, but he seized her wrist. He brought his face close to hers, and she saw that this whole time he retained his stone cold, immobile expression.

Her heart actually jumped.

“You said,” he breathed, “when I hold him and… touch him?” He put his other hand to his face.

How delightfully unexpected. “With your heartbeat next to mine— _his._ ”

There was a _pop_ and suddenly they were covered in the champagne which was originally meant for dinner. “Dear me. Our clothes seem to be soiled.”

He stared at her in a daze. Behind his stern expression, she could see feelings unfamiliar to him warring in his eyes. Grell seized his neck and kissed him full on the lips.

“I will help you _practice._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comment from the author: 
> 
> "And then Grell said he was satisfyingly rough, but otherwise SO fucking boring."


	18. Many Threads

"Duke William! To what do I owe the pleasure~?" 

Lizzie had knocked on the door to Grell's office just after the Moulin opened, apologizing for the interruption and stepping aside to allow the Duke into the room. Grell had immediately gotten up to greet him, stopping just short of pressing up against his side suggestively. 

"It's not like you to be here so early. Alan hasn't come downstairs yet, poor dear. He likes to sleep in, but I can fetch him for you if you wish," she said, batting her eyes at him.

Lizzie curtseyed and departed, and the Duke closed the door, eyeing Grell with thinly-veiled contempt. "It is actually you I need to speak to, Ms. Sutcliffe. There are things that need to be discussed if this show is to continue production."

"Oh? Do sit down, then, my dear duke. We shall discuss things~" Grell sashayed back to her chair, taking a seat and leaning forward to rest her head in her hand and regard the dark-haired noble with slightly-lidded eyes. "Is there anything you are concerned about? The last of the costumes should be done tomorrow, and if Rosa and Claude have finished with the choreography for the opening of the second act, that should be everything. We can start full run-through rehearsals in a matter of days."

"I am not here to talk about the mechanics of the show, Ms. Sutcliffe," Duke William said sharply. "I am here to talk about my patronage of this bordello you are trying to call a theatre." He leaned forward as well, frowning. "I just want to be certain that my investment will be worth something. After all, it is taking quite a bit of money to put on this show. I expect a return on what I have put in."

Grell tilted her head, looking a bit uncertain now. "And what is it that you would like, Duke William?" she asked, not letting anything of her thoughts leak into her voice. "What can we offer you as a suitable return on your investment?"

"I want the deeds to the Moulin Rouge," William said flatly. "As collateral against the success of the show. Should everything go as planned, they will be returned to you after opening night." He ignored Grell's widened eyes and stunned expression, continuing, "And as for a suitable return... I want Alan Humphries."

"You want the deeds to _my_ theatre?!" Grell demanded. "How dare you?!"

"I am not spending another franc on this foolhardy venture without some sort of assurance that my money will not have gone to complete waste!" the Duke snarled in return. "And I will have Alan Humphries as reward for my _generous_ donation to your little 'theatre'."

Grell bit her tongue. Arrogant as he was, Duke William was still their patron. "What do you mean, you 'want' Alan? We can absolutely set up an appointment for you, if you would like to spend the night with him..."

William pointed at her, vaguely threatening. "No, I wish to have him as mine. He will not see any other so-called 'clients', I will not have to pay for a night with him, and if I should choose to leave, he will come with me." He scowled, wringing his hands. "I do not like other people having their hands on what should be rightfully mine. Alan Humphries is the prize of this establishment, and I will have him exclusively for myself!"

Torn, Grell simply stared at him for a moment, thoughts racing. She kept her expression as neutral as possible, not wanting the Duke to know how rattled she was by his demands. "I understand completely..." she murmured, thinking quickly. On the one hand, it was unfair to Alan. He would get no money save the small wage paid by the Moulin if he wasn't taking clients, and the Duke seemed to want to keep him as a pet. No, not even a pet. She would basically be selling him to the nobleman like an object, in exchange for his continued support. And she would have to give the deeds to her beloved Moulin to this arrogant duke. On the other hand, the Moulin would never recover if Duke William withdrew his patronage now. Too much had been spent on the show, and if they had to pay him back, it would ruin them. As much as she _loathed_ having to hand over the deeds, she would loathe watching the Moulin wither away more. And as for Alan... Well, he had never liked taking clients in the first place, had he? He should be content with just this. Spending time with just the Duke shouldn't be a hardship at all. And even if it was, it was necessary to endure that they would all be all right in the end. He would understand that. He had to.

"Very well, my dear Duke~" It was easy enough to fall back into playing that unshakeable hostess. She flashed William a winning smile, nodding to him. "It will be as you wish."

Duke William pushed a sheet of paper across the table to her. "The agreement to transfer the deeds. Should the show be successful, it shall be torn up and the deeds returned." No mention of Alan. Alan was to be his regardless.

Grell beamed. "Of course." With only the barest of hesitation, she pulled out a pen and signed in elegant cursive, turning over ownership of her beloved Moulin Rouge to Duke William T. Spears. But the show would go off without a hitch. It had to. And nothing, not even Alan's apparent relationship with Eric, was going to jeopardize that.

* * *

It wasn't hard to guess that something had gone wrong, when they saw the Duke trailing Lizzie towards Grell's office with a scowl on his face. Sebastian and Ciel exchanged a glance before going to find Claude. The dark-haired dancer was discussing a scene with Ronald when they approached, and they stopped for a moment to find a way to break into the conversation.

"I just don't think that piece of choreography is working with this scene. It's too...sharp. Too many sharp movements, you know?" Ronald said, pointing at a part in the script. "It should be more...flowy."

"But the music has distinct notes," Claude objected. "I was working with those points." He glanced up, spotting Sebastian and Ciel, and smirked. "Here, we can ask our music-master what he thinks it's meant to sound like, since he wrote it."

Sebastian smiled wryly, looking over at Ciel. "There was actually something else we wished to speak to you about."

"Really?" Ronald asked. "What is it?"

"Something better spoken of in private." Ciel rolled his eyes, gesturing dismissively at the bustle all around them. "Can we go home for a bit?"

"I guess that's okay... We're not really busy right now." Ronald still looked apprehensive, like he expected Grell to leap out of the woodwork and demand to know why they weren't working, but the four members of the troupe trekked back across the street and up to their apartment, where they settled in.

"So," Claude asked. "What is this thing we need to speak about that's so private?"

"Eric," Sebastian said bluntly.

"Eric?" Claude and Ronald echoed. "What about Eric?" Ronald looked puzzled, while Claude just seemed unconcerned.

Ciel frowned. "Eric could be threatening our place here at the Moulin Rouge," he said plainly. "We all know he has that relationship with Alan by now; they haven't done a very good job at keeping it a secret. Grell has to at least suspect something. And if Duke William finds out, he's going to be furious. Grell could decide to fire us to keep Eric away from Alan. We need this job. We cannot allow that to happen."

Laughing nervously, Ronald began, "We don't know that Grell would do anything like that... Especially if it's just Eric causing the problem, right?"

"How does she know we're not helping him conceal the relationship?" Sebastian said. "How does she know we are not equally to blame? In a way, we are, for allowing this to continue despite Alan's obligations to the Duke." It was obvious that Duke William was expecting some sort of relationship out of Alan, and the illusion that such a relationship was forming had to be maintained. But if Alan and Eric were being...obvious about their 'connection', it was only a matter of time before the Duke learned of it.

Ronald frowned. Sebastian had a point, but at the same time, Eric was his friend. He wasn't going to throw him to the wolves over something like this. Eric was happy. And so was Alan. It might be fairly obvious that there was something between them, but it was also fairly obvious that Alan didn't like the Duke. Could they really insist that both songwriter and courtesan give up what made them happy just to protect themselves?

"Obviously, we wouldn't have to do anything unless the situation grows problematic," Ciel said, noticing Ronald's uncertain expression. "But we need to keep an eye on them. If nothing changes, or things get worse, we'll have to deal with Eric before any harm can come to our situation."

"I agree with Ciel," Claude said. "So long as things do not get any worse, we do not need to act."

"All right..." Ronald still wasn't sure about any of this, but he nodded along with the others. Hopefully Alan and Eric would be okay until the night of the show. That was all that mattered, at this point.

* * *

Eric left his flat just after noon, having spent the morning tweaking a few bits of Alan and Asmodeus's dialogue to help with the flow. It sounded much more natural now, and he carried his annotated copy of the script with him, so that they could adjust theirs and start working on their new lines. Hopefully these would come more easily since the wording was smoother than before.

He'd heard Ronald and the rest of the troupe return an hour or two ago, and then leave again, but thought nothing of it. He headed down the stairs and out across the street, but before he could get into the Moulin Rouge, two people came out that he recognized. Thomas Battenhall and Oliver Morrison were regulars in the afternoons, always bidding for Alan's attention, but today both looked extremely irritated. Eric was prepared to give them a wide berth, but then Oliver spotted him and pointed.

"You there! Eric Slingby!"

Eric blinked in confusion as Oliver strode over, Thomas close behind, and frowned at him. "Do you have something to do with this?" the baron demanded coolly, utterly unamused.

"Something to do with what?" Eric asked, baffled. Neither noble had ever shown any particular interest in him before. Why now?

Thomas folded his arms, regarding Eric with a level gaze. "Alan has just informed us that he can no longer see clients, and as such, we shall have to find our entertainment elsewhere." He sounded more disappointed than angry. "I'm certain it's that bloody duke. He seems arrogant enough to order something like this."

"What?" Eric said dumbly. Alan wasn't taking clients anymore? Why would he do that? Didn't he want the money?

"I heard from Alan that you two have some sort of _relationship_ ," Oliver said snidely. "You haven't done anything to upset Duke William, have you?"

Had Alan told Oliver about them? Eric shook his head. No, that wasn't important. What mattered was that he knew, and how much the Duke knew. "No... No' that I can think of..." They had been careful. They hadn't been openly affectionate with the Duke or Grell around, save for that one kiss on the hill the other day. There wasn't any way that the Duke could have discovered what they were up to. It had to be something else. Maybe there was something wrong with Alan. "I'll talk t' him an' see what I can find out."

Thomas nodded. "That would be helpful. It would be a shame to be unable to see him anymore. Finding someone new is so tiresome." Despite his obvious discontent with the situation, there was still a hint of a smile on his face. It was clear he was getting some kind of enjoyment out of subtly needling Eric about the fact that Alan couldn't be his alone.

Eric bobbed his head in a mockery of a bow before heading for the door to the Moulin. When he got to the main room, the usual afternoon bustle was still going on, and he looked around for Alan, determined to ask about this sudden change of mind. He saw Alois perched in some old man's lap, making doe eyes at him, and Mei teaching a man to waltz near the side of the room. Asmodeus was up at one of the tables on the side, chatting with a woman who was giggling at something he'd said, but there were telltale signs of worry on his face. And Lizzie was flirting with a man near the entrance, leaning over to show off her cleavage as she smiled, but when she caught sight of Eric she excused herself with a flounce and hurried over to the blond man.

"I've only got a moment, and then I need to get back to my company, but Alan said to tell you when you got here that he would be waiting in the kitchen," she said, smiling brightly, but there was something slightly false about the expression. "He wants to talk to you."

"About what?" Eric asked, looking concerned.

Lizzie's smile slipped a bit. "It's nothing _awful_ , but it's really not my place to say. Go talk to him." She waved to him, then hurried back to the man she'd been talking to previously.

Eric bit back the urge to go after her and ask for something, anything more specific, but instead he wove his way across the floor, still feeling out-of-place amidst the well-dressed clients and glamour despite having been here over two months. He slipped into the back hallway, passing a few other employees before heading into the kitchen.

Alan was sitting at the round table off to the side, looking melancholy. He looked up when Eric walked in, and brightened a fraction before the gloom filled his eyes again. "Eric, I'm glad you're here."

"What happened?" Eric asked. "Those two noble blokes...Battenhall and Morrison? I ran int' them on my way in, an' they were goin' on about you no' takin' clients anymore. Tha' can' be righ', can it?"

The courtesan looked away. "It is right. I won't be taking clients anymore." His voice wobbled a bit, but his expression remained neutral, from what little Eric could see of it.

"But why would ya stop takin' clients? I don't y'don' like it, but y've got a goal in mind, righ'?"

"It's not that simple," Alan said quietly. "The Duke has ordered it. He doesn't like me spending time with other men. Clearly he's a bit more possessive than I thought." He bit his lip. "It will be fine... I can't say I'm going to miss the company. None of them liked me for myself anyway..."

Eric walked over to lean down and put a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Y'don' look fine, though. Is it somethin' else?" He was going to wring the Duke's neck if he'd 'ordered' anything that would seriously hurt Alan, show or no show.

Alan sighed. "Other things. Little things. Not a big deal in the long run. It's the orders that bother me. It's one thing to not like my clients much. It's another thing to have the decision to see them taken away from me." The brunet seemed to shrink into himself, shoulders hunching miserably. "I don't know if I can do this, Eric. I'm going to have to spend so much more time with him now, and I just know he's going to try something before opening night. What am I going to do if h--"

But Eric cut him off, tipping his chin up and kissing him mid-sentence to stop the increasingly more panicked-sounding words. Alan froze in surprise for a moment, then reached up to wrap his arms around Eric's neck and kiss back desperately. For a few moments, the world shrank down to just them, and then Eric pulled away and said reassuringly, "It's jus' another month, Alan. We'll be okay. Another month, an' then we can do th' show, pay th' Duke back anythin' th' Moulin might owe him, an' send 'im away. We'll never have t' see him again if we don' wan' to."

Reluctantly, Alan nodded. "Yes... Yes... Just another month..." They could work around any orders the Duke might give. William couldn't be here all the time. He wouldn't have to give up Eric.

He couldn't give up Eric. Not now. Not ever.


	19. Worn and Weary

Two weeks passed, and the Duke's decrees had started to wear on everyone. Most of the stress weighed heavily on the shoulders of Alan, who was now obliged to spend much of his time with the Duke. Even though Eric couldn't do much on his own without arousing suspicion, the other workers at the Moulin Rouge found excuses to draw Alan's attention away from the dark-haired noble, well aware of their Star Sapphire's dislike of the man. Even just a few minutes at a time was a blessing when otherwise Alan would have had to spend uninterrupted afternoons with the Duke. But he maintained that if he wasn't seeing clients, then his evenings were his own to rehearse for the show. Duke William had agreed reluctantly, though he was disappointed that that meant dinner was out. But with entire afternoons of Alan's attention for free, he really couldn't complain much.

Thomas and Oliver continued to visit in the afternoons, even if Alan wasn't allowed to socialize on the main floor anymore. Instead of competing for his attentions, they flirted with the other courtesans. Thomas even made a few passes at Asmodeus, as he'd insinuated he would do if Alan was ever unavailable. But mostly they chatted and threw subtle glares at the other nobleman keeping the prize of the Moulin Rouge to himself.

But they persevered, and it wasn't awful. Alan's only complaint was the Duke's, and Grell's, final command. He was not allowed to go to Eric's to rehearse without a "chaperone". And he couldn't object, certainly not to Grell, without looking suspicious. So most of the time, he still couldn't be openly affectionate around Eric, even in the blond man's own apartment. Asmodeus was the only one sympathetic enough and not scared enough of Grell to allow him to act freely around his...well, _lover_ was the appropriate word now, wasn't it? "Boyfriend" was too juvenile. "Partner" sounded better, though. But Alan didn't dwell on what to call them much, instead trying to wheedle as much out of his time with Eric as possible.

Tonight, Eric's premise to get him to come over was that he'd adjusted part of the aria, and needed both Alan and Asmodeus to come and work on the new ending. Fortunately Grell was busy for the evening, and Asmodeus had nothing else to do, so Alan practically ran up the stairs to Eric's flat and threw his arms around him when he opened the door.

"Hey, love," Eric said, grinning. He waved at Asmodeus over Alan's shoulder, his other arm squeezing Alan tightly, and Asmodeus returned the smile faintly. He was just glad to see Alan happy.

"Did you really rewrite part of the aria?" Alan asked, nuzzling into Eric's neck. "Or is that just a ruse because 'Deus leaves us alone?"

Eric chuckled, leading them both into the flat. "No, no, I really did rewrite part of it. Sounds much better now, I think." With Alan detached from his neck finally, he was able to get a good look at his love, and fought back the urge to frown. There were faint dark circles under his eyes, and Eric had been noticing for the past few days that he seemed slightly more out of it than usual. But he put on a smile, not wanting to ruin the time they had together without Grell's strict orders.

"Well, let us hear it," Asmodeus urged, going over to flop into one of the armchairs and explicitly leaving the couch open for Alan and Eric to cuddle. "You're not tossing me out into the hallway to have privacy this time," he teased.

Eric almost spilled the tea, while Alan turned red. Obviously he should be used to Asmodeus waiting outside the door while he was with someone, but Eric was still different. Those were personal moments. That was why they'd actually tossed him all the way downstairs to the building lobby. "'Deus, stop it," Alan whined.

"I'm just teasing, Alan~" Asmodeus replied, giggling.

"Break it up, y'two," Eric laughed, coming over to set the tea down and flop down beside Alan, pulling him close. "Quit flirtin'. Work t'be done."

The older courtesan scoffed. "That's my line, Eric!" He flicked his violet ponytail back and leaned forward to grab his tea. "So what did you change?"

Eric proffered a sheet of paper to each of them, keeping one for himself. "Jus' th' las' bit there. Th' second half o' th' last stanza."

"And it's the same tune as before?" Alan asked. When Eric nodded, he began to hum a few bars of the music leading up to that part, and then sang, _"Though the hours take no notice of what fate might have in store... Our love, come what may, will never age a day. I'll wait forevermore~"_ He cleared his throat, then looked up. "...Like that?"

"It sounds like it should be more of a slur on 'never'," Asmodeus said. "More like 'ne'er'. Just one syllable. Right?"

"Right," Eric replied.

"I like it..." Alan said softly. "I think it's lovely. And it really gets across that the angel and the clerk are willing to outlast everything that's thrown against them."

The songwriter chuckled. Sometimes it sounded like Alan had forgotten that it was meant to be them. He snuggled him roughly, earning a yelp and a laugh, and pointed to the last two lines. "Tha's th' important part, though, 'Come what may'. No matter what happens. No matter whether they're miles apart, 'r one o' them's in prison, 'r they can't see each other withou' a chaperone..."

Alan blushed, but said nothing, just tugging the taller man down to kiss him. Eric obliged gladly, and for a moment the world shrunk to just the two of them and their couch. But eventually they had to break apart, and when they did, Alan glanced over to see Asmodeus grinning at them, trying very hard not to giggle. "'Deus!"

"What? Just watching you two enjoying yourselves~ Should I leave~?" the other courtesan teased, and Alan buried his face in Eric's chest.

"Shut up," he mumbled, muffled by Eric's shirt. "We need to work on the new lyrics."

Eric patted him on the head, knowing that Asmodeus was just enjoying the adorable, easily-embarrassed, happy Alan that had replaced the stoic, proper version that spent time with the Duke. Gathering up the papers with the new lyrics, he opted to hum the music for them to give them a cue, and they all set about practicing so that the change could be implemented at tomorrow's rehearsal.

After a few hours of practice, plus card games, general chit-chat, and any other excuse they could come up with to keep Alan and Asmodeus from having to return to the Moulin Rouge, all three were flagging badly. Asmodeus had been yawning for the past half hour, and Alan had given up on staying awake entirely. Eric smiled down at him where he was sound asleep against Eric's chest, and settled his arms around the courtesan protectively. He looked up at Asmodeus with a smile tinged with sadness. "Guess that means it's time f'r you guys t' go." He didn't want to let go of Alan. It was clear, even without being explicitly stated, that Alan was unhappy lately, and he wanted to protect the one he loved. But that was impossible to do without incurring _more_ of the Duke's wrath.

But Asmodeus just shook his head, looking tired, and not just because of how late it was. "That's the most relaxed I've seen him in over a week," he said quietly. "He doesn't sleep well anymore; he's been eating less. I swear, he's lost weight." He picked at a loose thread in the couch cushion. "Go on. Go tuck him in and get some sleep. I'll take the couch. Grell won't send someone to look for us until at least nine. I'll wake you before then so no one gets suspicious."

"'Deus..." But Eric shifted Alan to a more comfortable hold and got up, looking terribly grateful. "Thank you."

"It's no trouble," Asmodeus said, coming over to fluff the pillow at the end of the couch. "I'm his bodyguard; it's my job to look after him."

Eric tucked Alan into the bed, fetching an extra blanket to toss to the violet-haired courtesan. "Y'do a very good job of it."

Asmodeus just smiled, settling onto the couch as Eric settled in next to Alan. Alan didn't stir except to roll over and throw an arm over his lover, and Eric pressed his lips to the top of Alan's head and sighed softly. They couldn't go on like this forever. But...just another two and a half weeks. Just a little longer, and everything would be okay.

* * *

Alan dragged his way back into the Moulin Rouge the next morning, unwilling to admit how disappointing getting out of bed had been. Asmodeus had woken Eric just before nine, and Alan had feigned sleep while the songwriter went to begin breakfast. Asmodeus, meanwhile, slid into bed beside him and began faking sleep as well. Sure enough, at fifteen minutes past nine there was a knock on the door, and Grell was standing there looking extremely irritated when Eric opened it.

Thankfully, she'd bought their excuse of being too tired to come back the previous night, and Eric had distracted her with fluffy scrambled eggs and the new lyrics. But she'd still insisted Alan return to the Moulin once breakfast was done, so that he would have time for a final costume fitting and still be able to prepare to meet the Duke for lunch. So there he was, trudging through the main room and up the stairs, possibly the least enthusiastic he'd ever been to have to see a client.

Across the main room, Lizzie and the other dancers paused their practice to watch him disappear into the back. Just as it was no real secret that Alan had something going on with Eric, it was no secret that the others were all concerned about his wellbeing. When Grell followed him and Asmodeus in and headed through a different door towards her office, they all looked at each other, wearing matching expressions of concern.

"I hate seeing Mr. Alan so miserable," Sascha said, staring down at their ballet shoes sadly. They were rehearsing a bit apart from the others while the rest of the group worked on the ball scene. Most of the dancers were perfecting the steps of the waltz individually so that it could be worked on in pairs later in the day, while they rehearsed the flowing ballet steps needed to portray the human form of the Thorns.

"I know... He's so nice; he shouldn't be so sad." Sieglinde frowned, nudging at a scuff on the floor with her toe.

Lizzie sighed. "If he could spend more time with Mr. Eric, I'm sure he'd be all right. But he has to spend time with the Duke..."

"What if we talked to Miss Nina and Miss Rosa? 'Dey could go talk to Miss Grell," Sascha said, but they sounded unsure. Grell could be mercurial sometimes. "She doesn't want Mr. Alan to be miserable ei'der, right? And she'd be more likely to listen to 'dem 'dan us."

"That would make sense," Lizzie said, nodding. "Let's go find them, then! Miss Nina wanted us to come try on costumes for last fittings anyway."

At a murmur of assent from the other dancers, Lizzie led the way back towards the costume rooms. They actually passed Alan on the way, but he didn't make eye contact, heading for the stairs. None of them tried to stop him, knowing it wouldn't help, and instead hurried to where Nina was waiting. Rosa was in the hallway, raising an eyebrow at the gaggle of dancers. "All of you, I thought I said come in groups of two or three."

"We wanted to talk to you, Miss Rosa," Lizzie explained. "And Miss Nina. We're worried about Alan, and we were wondering if you could talk to Miss Grell for us?"

Rosa blinked, then ushered the entire group into the workroom, shaking her head. Closing the door behind her, she frowned, but before she could say anything, Nina bustled over with an armful of costumes. "Goodness, I thought you were coming in a much smaller group! Well, I can work with that. Go on, put these on!"

"They want to talk about Alan," Rosa said quietly, and Nina stopped.

"Alan? Why, he was just here for a fitting. What about him?"

"They are worried and want us to talk to Grell." Rosa folded her arms.

Nina actually looked subdued, which was a drastic change from her usual hyperactivity and excitement. "We've already spoken to Grell," she said.

"What?" Lizzie cried, and there was a confused, vaguely distressed murmur from the rest of the group.

"We spoke to Grell a week ago," Rosa explained, "before things were even this bad, but nothing has changed. Grell was the one who ordered him to spend time with Duke William, the one who ordered him to be watched if he goes over to Eric's or Ronald's flat, and the one who ordered him not to see other clients."

Nina frowned. "If there are things we can do to make this easier on him, we obviously take advantage of them. I've called him in for extra fittings to give him a break. It helps him _and_ my artistic vision. Everyone wins! But there is only so much we can do."

"So we can't do any'ding until the show?" Sascha asked.

"At this point, no," Rosa replied. "Make no mistake; we're on Alan's side. And Eric's as well. He has been good to Alan. But with Grell keeping an eye on things and the Duke as our patron, we don't have much choice but to go along with things as they are now."

The group of dancers, previously determined and convinced that their appeal to a higher authority would work, wilted. Lizzie, glancing around at the rest of them, said quietly, "All right. We'll try to do what we can to help him. Maybe we can get him to come practice waltz with us. He's in that scene."

"That's the spirit," Rosa encouraged. "But for now, you all need to try on your costumes for final fittings. The show is in roughly two weeks, after all."

All of them nodded obediently, letting Nina pass out the costumes and hurrying to get changed. It was comforting to know that Alan had people on his side, even if they couldn't do more than offer him emotional support and distraction. Hopefully as the show got closer the Duke would leave him be to prepare.

* * *

 

In her office, Grell sat behind her desk, looking regal as always in her position as Queen of the Moulin Rouge. But even so, she seemed tense and preoccupied, and Undertaker, the office's current guest, chuckled a bit as she fidgeted with her pens.

"What's wrong, m'lady?" he asked, grinning. "Surely things are going according to plan? The Duke's still 'ere, and we're going to put on a brilliant show."

"Yes, well," Grell huffed. "Unfortunately he's not as much of a gentleman as I thought. Demanding the deeds of the Moulin Rouge! Who does he think he is?" She tapped a stylish red heel irritably under her desk. Duke William was undeniably attractive, completely tall, dark, and handsome, but at this point, she wasn't sure if she regretted her decision to cave to his demands and hand over the deeds. She certainly borderline regretted essentially leaving Alan at his mercy. But there was no turning back now.

"Well, we can't focus on that now, can we?" Undertaker said, a hint of bright green eyes visible beneath his fringe. "Th' Christmas extravaganza's coming up in a week. We 'ave to get ready for that. We make an awful lot on tips and door charges that night, after all."

"If only that was enough to fund the show." Grell flipped through the planner she kept on her desk, opening it to December 25th and looking over the notes. "We've got the music set, the orchestra is learning their parts, Miss Hopkins is distributing Christmas outfits to the new people we've hired since last year..."

"The first-aid room is well-stocked in the event of any mis'aps," Undertaker giggled. "Remember last year?" They'd had a man imbibe a bit too much alcohol, and attempt to slide down one of the banisters in the main room. He'd tipped over and fallen off of it and banged his head on the stairs. He'd made a full recovery, but after that the employees were ordered to keep an even closer watch on the guests.

Grell nodded, smiling a bit at the memory. "All that remains, in that case, is personal invitations sent to our most esteemed customers. We must pay special attention to those who used to be Alan's regular clients, like Baron Morrison and Mr. Tressigan. They've surely suffered from having to find new entertainment."

"'onestly, I can't think they're but so put off," Undertaker chuckled. "But certainly, I'll 'ave some of the older lasses make up the cards, and you can fill them out and sign them and we'll send them off."

"All right... Goodness, I don't know why I do this every year; it's so much work," Grell grumbled good-naturedly.

Undertaker grinned like a Cheshire cat. "You'd 'ave no use for that Mrs. Claus outfit of yours if you didn't," he laughed, practically flopping across the desk as the giggles shook his frame.

Grell made an indignant sound. "And _what_ is so funny about my outfit?" she demanded. "I think I look ravishing in it!"

"You look good in everything, m'lady," Undertaker said, waving his hands absently. "But we'll get everything set up for next week. 

"It'll go off without a hitch."


	20. Yuletide Cheer

Christmas morning at the Moulin Rouge was a spectacular affair, even before any of the evening festivities began. Ronald and Ciel were up at the crack of dawn, shaking awake Claude and Sebastian and even storming downstairs to bang on Eric's door until the songwriter opened it blearily. They dragged him down the stairs and across the street while he was still pulling on his sweater, and Eric marveled that they'd even waited long enough for him to change out of his pajamas.

Everyone had been dropping off presents in a designated storage room for a week now, and sometime overnight, a bunch of employees had piled them all around the large tree set up in the center of the main room. It was done in elegant red and gold decorations, and lights were wound around all of the banisters and railings, as well as hanging from the ceiling. There was fake snow frosting windowsills and sconces, and clear glass snowflakes suspended from nearly-invisible thread hanging from the chandeliers. It had taken days to get everything this perfect, but now that they saw it completed, it was utterly worth it.

Grell officially declared that everyone had the day off until three o'clock that afternoon to open presents, eat from the buffet of pastries and other rich foods set out, and even sleep if they felt like it. Everyone eagerly crowded around the bottom of the tree, handing around presents until each employee had a small pile in front of them.

Everyone got nice things, courtesy of the different groups scraping together modest amounts of money to make sure they had enough. Ronald, for example, received a fairly expensive watch from his friends in the theatre troupe, and a bottle of fancy cologne from the lasses in the dance corps. Mei smiled at him when he opened it, and he winked at her, tucking the bottle into the inside pocket of his jacket. Many of the dancers received new shoes and jewelry, and Grell got a beautiful new dress from Undertaker, Rosa, and Nina.

Eric wasn't expecting presents, but Sebastian and Ciel had picked him up some new ink ribbons for his typewriter, Ronald had gotten him a bottle of very fine whiskey, and those who were part of the show had all chipped in and gotten him his own suit. It was finer clothing than he had ever owned, and he held the box gingerly, almost afraid to touch the fabric.

"You'll look so handsome in it, Eric~" Grell tittered. "Now you have something nice to wear tonight to the Chrismas gala!"

From over beside his pile of gifts, which included a set of small flowerpots and some packets of flower seeds, Alan tried very hard to keep a straight face. Grell was certainly right. Eric was going to look brilliant in a suit properly cut to his measurements. It took a great deal of willpower not to just zone out and admire that mental image.

"I wasn' even expectin' t'come t'night..." Eric said sheepishly, still looking over the suit.

A whole bunch of people tried to talk at once, and some of the dancers sitting near him grabbed at his arms. "Eric, you're the songwriter, and you're pretty much the director at this point! You have to come! People will be interested!"

"You have that nice outfit now! There's no excuse not to!"

"We all want you to come!"

The blond man blinked, almost overwhelmed. "Aw, y'bunch..."

"Eric, if you don't come, I am docking your pay," Grell said with a devious grin. And who could argue with that? He nodded obediently, grinning right back at her.

As the opening of presents continued, however, he glanced at Alan. His gift for the courtesan hadn't been in the pile under the tree. He wanted to give it to him personally. He only hoped that Alan liked it; it had been tricky to put together.

But, until he could find the right moment to pull him aside and give it to him, he'd distract himself with the pastries on the buffet table. The kitchen staff had really gone all-out. He could only imagine what kind of things they would create for the gala tonight.

* * *

As everyone scattered, to either dig into the vast array of pastries set up on the buffet or to go back to sleep and take advantage of not having to work until later that afternoon, Eric caught Alan's sleeve. "Meet me upstairs in a bit?"

Alan, who had almost immediately made a beeline for the chocolate eclairs, glanced at him. His mouth was spotted with chocolate, and he almost tried to answer with his mouth full before he caught himself. Taking a second to swallow, he laughed at himself a bit and smiled. "Of course. Perhaps the castle room?"

Eric nodded, and the courtesan watched him head off in search of a desperately-needed cup of coffee before heading over to retrieve his pastries. He always looked forward to Christmas at the Moulin Rouge; he loved the decorations and atmosphere. There were twinkling lights and winter greenery, and glittery frost everywhere. Plus, everyone was always in such a good mood thanks to the holiday, including his clients. But this year was special. This year he had Eric, and it was the first time he'd gotten to celebrate a holiday with someone who meant that much to him, even if they did have to hide it.

He stayed to chat with his friends for a while, happily munching on chocolate-covered doughnuts and pastries filled with custard, until he saw Eric head for the stairs. Giving it a few minutes to avoid looking like he was following the songwriter, he made his goodbyes and his promises to come back and mingle more later and then headed for a different door out of the main room. The castle room was up on the third floor, and Alan's route took him by his own room to pick up Eric's present. He'd gone into the city with Asmodeus to pick it out. He really hoped Eric would like it.

When he entered the castle room, Eric was standing with his hand behind his back, grinning like the doofus he was, and Alan couldn't help but smile in return. "Well, Eric, what are you going to do with me now that we're up here?" he asked, a laugh in his voice.

Eric just grinned wider, walking over to catch Alan's chin with his free hand and kiss him briefly before speaking. "Merry Chris'mas, Alan." His voice was warm, happy, and Alan flushed, feeling a bit shy.

"I, uh, got you a present," he said softly, still smiling despite his slight embarrassment. It was still unusual to feel so close to someone, even after over a month of this.

"Got you one too," Eric said brightly. "Can I go firs'?"

"Oh... Sure," Alan replied. He wasn't sure what to expect. His clients often got him lavish gifts for holidays, or even just when they felt like it. Gems, expensive sweets, fine clothes... He knew Eric wouldn't be able to afford anything like that. But his eyes widened when Eric pulled a bouquet of roses from behind his back and held them out. Alan took them carefully, looking them over, and realized.

"Are these made of chocolate?" he said in amazement.

Eric shrugged, his smile sheepish. "Took me a while to get th' righ' consistancy so they'd hold their shape, but I got it eventually."

Alan pulled a tiny bud from the side of the bouquet, trying the chocolate without ruining the lovelier blooms. It was delicious, and overwhelming, because no one had ever made him something like this before. Something that so obviously took a great deal of effort. He smiled at Eric, saying, "They're perfect, Eric. Thank you." He offered Eric his present, and as the blond took the box, Alan had a moment of panic. Now he felt like his gift was all wrong. Would Eric even like something like this? It wasn't typical to get a man who wasn't a courtesan expensive jewelry, after all.

But Eric's face lit up as he pulled the thick gold chain from the box. "Wow, Alan...! Did ya really pick this out f'r me?"

"Yes, I..." Alan stammered, "I thought it suited you; it's simple but nice and..." He trailed off as Eric put the chain on. It hung perfectly between the open collar of his shirt, and Alan tried very hard to ignore the way it highlighted his collarbones. "I-It looks good on you."

"I love it," the blond said simply. "It's perfec'." He stepped forward to catch Alan around the waist and drew him in for a firm kiss. Alan made a content sound, leaning into him happily. His first instinct had been right. The chain was a good idea.

Eric flopped back onto the bed, grinning as Alan set the roses aside so they wouldn't get crushed and climbed up to settle beside him. "I'll wear it t'nigh' t' th' gala," he said brightly.

Alan blinked up at him. "With your new suit? I'm not sure that will work..." No one would see it if he wore it under the dress shirt, and wearing it on the outside would look rather strange.

But Eric chuckled. "I jus' won' button th' shirt all th' way up. Ties 're f'r people who don' like breathin'."

"Heathen," Alan said, but he was clearly teasing, nuzzling against the songwriter. If only he could just stay here; that would be all he needed for Christmas. But there was too much to do before the gala began. "Tonight, you'll dance with me at least once, right?"

"It's not too dangerous?" Eric asked, ruffling the Alan's hair. "I don' want ya t' get in trouble."

"It's the Christmas gala. I'm sure I'll have to dance with everyone at least once," Alan sighed. "And I want one of those dances to be you. Promise me."

The songwriter's gaze softened. "Yeah. I promise." He held Alan close, murmuring contentedly, "Merry Chris'mas..."

* * *

The gala whirled into motion in a blast of faux-snow from the ceiling and a rush of well-dressed people, primarily men, coming through the front door. Refreshments had been set up, elegant but energetic Christmas music was playing, and the courtesans and staff were dressed up even more impeccably than usual. Everyone settled into the cheerful, festive atmosphere easily, and even Alan appeared to be having a good time.

Vicomte Battenhall and Baron Morrison, eager to make up for not being able to spend time with Alan in weeks, ended up having an in-depth discussion to determine who got to dance with him first. Asmodeus and Alan, over by the stairs, kept an eye on them, laughing to each other about how seriously they were taking it. But eventually Oliver walked up, offering Alan a glass of champagne and saying politely, "Alan, it has been quite a while."

"My attention has been elsewhere. But I have missed your company." Alan took the glass, taking a sip to be polite. "Are you having a good evening so far, Baron Morrison?"

Oliver beamed. "Much better, now that I have the opportunity to speak with you." Ignoring the fact that he didn't actually have to ask, he looked briefly at Asmodeus. "May I steal Alan from you?"

"Far be it from me to keep him from you, Baron," Asmodeus replied with a grin. "I will see you later, Alan." He waved, watching the ice-blue-clad figure of his friend disappear into the crowd alongside the blond nobleman. In the few minutes he got to himself, he looked around, leaning on the banister and surveying the guests. Ronald was happily dancing with Mei, Eric, looking impeccable in his perfectly-cut suit, was surrounded by a crowd of admirers asking about the show, and Grell was lording over the room from her personal balcony.

But finally, Thomas approached him, bowing exaggeratedly. "Good evening, Asmodeus. Would you like to dance?"

The courtesan raised an eyebrow. "Settling for second-best, Vicomte Battenhall?" he asked wryly, amused by the idea that Thomas was only there because Oliver got Alan first. "I wouldn't have expected it of you."

"I did suggest that my interests might move to something new," Thomas said, matching his mocking tone. He offered a hand. "Shall we?"

Asmodeus took the offered hand, but he smirked. "I will dance with you, Vicomte, but I'm not going to play your game."

"Game?" Thomas chuckled. They walked out to the dance floor, settling into the steps of the minuet currently playing. "While I may play games, they are certainly not as complicated or cruel as the Duke's, wouldn't you say?"

"I would say that depends on your perspective." It was so hard to tell what Thomas's endgame was. "But considering we haven't seen you much lately, I'll go ahead and say that the Duke is worse." Asmodeus's long coat swished behind him as they swept through a turn, the tempo speeding up and the dance becoming a bit more intense. He kept his gaze on the bronze-haired noble's eyes, trying to read him. What was the playboy up to?

But Thomas shook his head. "You certainly can't be pleased with how Alan has been treated." At the other man's confused look, he continued, "I heard from Oliver, after his last appointment, and I have eyes. The Duke is at odds with the songwriter."

"Why do you care? Alan is a diversion for you. You can just find something else to amuse you in his absence."

Thomas dipped him, throwing him off-balance and earning a startled squeak. "There is a saying," he said, amused, "that the enemy of my enemy is my friend. This Duke has thrown off the order of things, and that displeases Oliver and I, at the very least."

"And?" Asmodeus gripped the vicomte's arms tightly until he was upright again, disliking being caught off-guard. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I am saying that should it come down to a dispute between a certain member of the nobility and the Moulin Rouge, Oliver and I will be siding with the Moulin. I'm sure he is telling Alan the same thing right now."

Violet eyes blinked in shock. Asmodeus stared at him, dumbfounded, before forcing his 'charming courtesan' smile back onto his face. That was certainly unexpected. "Well... That is much appreciated, Vicomte Battenhall."

"This place is far too amusing to allow such a stiff man to ruin it," Thomas said lightly, as if it was no big deal. And it probably wasn't. Siding with the Moulin would be an interesting diversion for him. But if it came down to a fight against the Duke, they would need all the help they could get.

Asmodeus smiled as the song came to an end, leaning to kiss the vicomte on the cheek after a moment of deliberation. "Shall we get a drink, sir?"

"I think so," Thomas agreed. 

* * *

There were too many drinks at this party, at least in Alan's slightly muddled opinion. The servers wandered around with trays of champagne and red wine, and while it was their job to make sure no one got out of hand, they wouldn't actually stop a guest from having too much.

The problem came in that the people who wanted to socialize with the Star Sapphire often insisted on offering him a drink. And, to be polite, he was forced to take at least one swallow of it. When he was the most popular courtesan in the building, that meant a great deal of polite swallows. But he wasn't drunk. Certainly not. Not when the Duke saw him, anyway, partway through the evening for a slow waltz. Although, he had finished the whole glass of wine the Duke offered and promised with a giggle to see him before the end of the evening.

But he wasn't more than tipsy. Definitely not.

He finally managed to catch up with Eric late in the evening. People had started to mellow, and many were going to the employees waiting at the doors, paying their fees and disappearing upstairs with the partner of their choice. Alan, knowing he couldn't drape himself over Eric from behind because the songwriter was so much taller than him, snuggled up against his arm instead, holding onto the limb with equal parts possessiveness and the desire to not fall over. "Are you enjoying the party, Mr. Slingby~?"

Eric glanced down at him, cracking a smile. "Yeah, 'm doin' good. How're you doin', Alan?"

"Good~" Alan beamed, much to the amusement of the people Eric had been talking with. He tugged at the songwriter's hand, saying in a voice that only wobbled a little bit, "Come dance with me, Eric. I haven't had the chance to dance with you yet."

The blond laughed, bidding his goodbyes to the group he'd been with and letting Alan lead him onto the floor. He looked over the courtesan's ice-blue waistcoat, flowing white shirt, and silvery pants, admiring the pale-blue, snowflake-shaped gems in his ears and how the colors made his emerald eyes stand out. It was similar to the outfit he'd worn when Eric had first seen him, dressed up like Cinderella with his clear shoes and songs about fractured fairy-tales. But now, instead of looking ready to put on a show, he was giggly and unsteady on his feet, less precise in his steps than Eric was used to seeing him.

"How much have ya had t' drink?" the songwriter asked, amused. "I kept seein' people offerin' ya glasses."

"Only a sip," Alan laughed, holding tight to Eric's shoulder and hand.

"A sip each from twen'y 'r thirty glasses, maybe," Eric countered, smirking. "Yer a bit drunk, Alan."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not~"

"Yer provin' it right now," Eric laughed.

Alan looped his arms around Eric's neck so they were dancing closer together, heedless of the crowd around them. "So what if I am? Not important. Just wanna dance with you~"

"Yer not worried about the Duke seein' us, love?" Eric asked, hands settling on Alan's waist. This was what he wanted: to be able to dance with Alan without worries, without the constant nagging in the back of his mind to be careful just in case Duke William saw something suspicious and took it out on Alan. But right now, that just wasn't possible, and no matter how adorable Alan looked, blinking up at him with shiny, vaguely-hazy eyes, Eric had to at least try to keep the situation under control.

Alan, in response to his question, mumbled a negative-sounding answer and leaned up and kissed him.

So much for keeping the situation under control.

It was instinct to kiss back, his arms tightening around the slender courtesan to keep him steady. Alan didn't seem to care about anything around them, kissing Eric and then nuzzling into his neck. "Alan, we can'..."

People around them had already started mumbling curiously, though Alan was still oblivious. Eric glanced around frantically for the Duke, and when he didn't see the dark-haired man, he caught Alan around his waist and started guiding him off the floor. Before he could get farther than ten steps, Asmodeus appeared, grinning but looking slightly frazzled at the same time. "Someone's had a bit much to drink, huh? That's the only way he'd kiss someone, even on Christmas!"

"Hi, 'Deus~" Alan giggled.

Asmodeus raised an eyebrow. "Hello, Alan. Guess what?"

"Whaaaat?"

"We're going to go get you some water." The older courtesan came over to sling Alan's arm over his shoulder, laughing a bit as Alan squirmed and muttered protests. But Asmodeus's voice was serious when he murmured to Eric, "Grell's distracting the Duke. Go back to the party and just brush off anyone who asks."

"Did he see anythin'?" Eric asked, wide-eyed.

"No, but Grell did. Shut up and go find someone else to dance with. I'll deal with Alan." Going back to speaking at a normal level, he added, "Sorry about that, Eric. But you've really got to expect a bit of misbehavior from people like us~" Asmodeus giggled, obviously putting on a show for the people around them, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Eric to stand helplessly for a moment. But then he forced himself to smile, turning to greet a group of women eager to speak to the show's 'handsome songwriter'.

If the Duke hadn't seen them, everything would be fine.

* * *

"Oh my god." Alois lifted a hand to his mouth, stifling giggles. Of the handful of people who did see the kiss, the blond gossip had been just close enough to see the whole thing. This was great; all of his insinuations had turned out to be correct. Even tipsy, Alan didn't just go around kissing people. And Eric hadn't looked nearly as shocked as he should have.

Alois wove through the crowd, wondering if he should share this tidbit. "Asmodeus is super-protective; maybe he'll beat up Eric," he mused to himself. That would be funny. But then again, maybe he already knew. Maybe the rest of the troupe, then? Did Ronald know? Ciel and Sebastian wouldn't be happy if Eric was messing around.

"Alan and Eric are a thing. I don't believe it~! It didn't even take any mistletoe!" Mistletoe would have given them an out, at least, but there was no denying anything now, especially since Asmodeus had showed up to whisk Alan away so quickly. Taking that into consideration, he had to be in on it. Alois cast another glance at Eric, noting that he looked kind of lost despite going back to mingling.

How had Alan gotten so lucky? He already had all the fame and rich clients he could possibly want, plus the hot songwriter. That dampened Alois's mood a bit, and he headed for the side of the room where the drink table was set up.

"No one pays attention to me. Alan doesn't even have to try." the blond mumbled, putting on a smile and a flirty wink for a group as he passed. They smiled back, but none of them tried to engage him. That was fine. He could find better company.

Claude was over by the drink table, sipping at a cup of punch and looking as though he wished to be anywhere but at the party. Alois happily went over and latched onto his arm, beaming up at him. "Hi, Claude~! Do you want to dance?"

"Not particularly," Claude replied.

"Oh, come on, just one!"

"I just want to finish my drink and have this evening be over with no headaches," the choreographer said flatly. "Go bother someone else."

Alois pouted, reluctantly letting go of him and backing off. "You're never any fun, Claude." Even Claude didn't want to spend any time with him. He grabbed a glass of champagne, ignoring the punch, and wandered off. "Everyone in this stupid brothel plays favorites. This is the worst."

As the evening went on, he did flirt with a few people. But mostly he indulged in the wine and champagne, getting more and more annoyed the more he drank. He deserved better than this. He was just as good as Alan or Asmodeus! As he took another glass of wine off one of the trays, he glowered at the server holding it as if it was their fault for his bad mood and the fact that there wasn't anything stronger than wine.

There weren't enough drinks at this party...


	21. The Road to the Gothic Tower

The following afternoon, despite many of the employees still recovering from mild hangovers and the youngest ones trying to convince Grell to recognize Boxing Day as an actual holiday, the Moulin Rouge began full-costumed dress rehearsals of the show. Ronald had finally dubbed it "The Most Beautiful Death in the World" after someone complained that it didn't have a title yet and they couldn't advertise properly. He was joking, but everyone had agreed that the title was good and should stay. It set up the story as a tragedy, and then people would be delighted by the fact that there was actually a happy ending.

"Everyone looks so good!" Ronald said under his breath as he and Eric sat to one side, watching the ballroom scene before the angel's aria. Nina had outdone herself on the costumes. Everything was rich colors and shimmery embellishments as pairs of dancers whirled around the stage. Ciel, playing the prince, had noticed that his new prize was not at the ball, and was already asking his servants where the angel might be. They all exited to the left as the rampart set was moved onstage, and then Alan appeared, seemingly atop one of the castle's towers.

"I miss him..." Alan said, staring wistfully off into the dimmed stage lights. Just a single spotlight illuminated him, and the music was low so that he could be clearly heard. Everyone watching, including the Duke in his center seat, held their breath. "He is better off like this... but yet..." The music swelled grandly, and Alan visibly sighed, running his hand absently over the low wall that edged the rampart. He took a deep breath, and as the piano music led to his cue, he began the aria.

 _"Oh beloved, far away now, will I see your smile again? I wish you could see, I wanted to be your light, until the end..."_ He'd practiced with Eric a thousand times, so the words flowed easily from his lips. As the second stanza went on, he followed the stage directions, not looking down as Asmodeus entered from stage left to stare longingly up at the balcony. The only downside of all of the hours of practice time with Eric was that he had much more experience singing the aria with the songwriter, so it was still momentarily odd to hear Asmodeus's voice rise up in the third stanza.

 _"I'm the darkness, you're the starlight, shining brightly from afar. Through hours of despair, I offer this prayer to you, my evening star..."_ Asmodeus followed his part perfectly, and Alan put on an appropriate expression of surprise, though his eyes flickered to Eric, who was mouthing the words along with the violet-haired man. His gaze continued to shift between them as they finished the duet part of the aria, and then Alan took a deep breath and braced himself before stepping up onto the railing and jumping from the set. He could feel Nina's prop wings catching the air as the wires lowered him to the stage, and for a moment it almost felt like he really was gliding on his own.

Asmodeus met him as he landed, the clerk shocked at the angel's actions. It was strange to see him with his hair coiled up under his hat, playing a poor man and not a glamorous courtesan, but his face still held its normal kindness and openness. He'd absolutely been the right choice to play the honest, goodhearted clerk. 

"What are you doing?" he asked earnestly, his voice concerned. "You chose the Prince."

"I chose wrong," Alan replied, clutching his hands. "I want to stay with you... To light your way, even after I'm gone. Even if I only have a little time left."

The clerk looked away. "If you knew what I had considered... The sin I nearly committed... Can someone like me really stand at your side?"

Alan smiled sadly. "I can see every sin, and I do not care. I want you beside me." They exchanged a meaningful look, and then Asmodeus returned the smile and they exited offstage just in time for a scene change to the prince ordering the demon out to search for them.

As the scrim curtain came across to give time for the major set shift to the forest that would be the scenery for the finale, the Duke sat back in his chair where he had been watching Alan's every move intently. The courtesan made an impressive angel, but he would be more impressive once Duke William could cage that angel for himself. Every day closer to opening night was a day closer to when he could have Alan Humphries for himself and finally earn proper compensation for his investment into this place. Alan was his only concern. He had paid little attention to the other performers, whether onstage or when they wandered down into the audience to watch after their parts were completed.

Alois was one of the ones who had come down to find a seat after shedding the armor pieces of his costume. As the transitional scene came to a close, he sat down next to the Duke, ignoring the disgusted look the dark-haired man gave him as he leaned on his shoulder. "Alan makes such a pretty angel, doesn't he?" Duke William didn't respond, and Alois cast a sharp blue glare at the stage, where Alan and Asmodeus were confronting Sebastian and his ridiculous boots. Well, he knew how to make the Duke pay attention to him, didn't he? "I don't get this ending. Why wouldn't the angel pick the prince?" He spoke as casually as he could, and when the Duke's harsh green eyes flickered to him for a moment, he continued, "He could live in luxury forever, since the prince would cure him. Instead, he chooses to die just to stay with some poor, impoverished songwriter. What an idiot."

"What?" Duke William finally spoke, his gaze fixed squarely on Alois.

The blond covered his mouth, laughing a bit. "I'm sorry, did I say that? I meant _clerk_ , obviously." But the devious grin on his face said otherwise. He bowed mockingly to the Duke, then headed back a few rows and settled down with his feet up on the seat in front of him, looking very satisfied. It would be amusing to see Alan talk his way out of this.

The show was reaching its grand conclusion. Grell had appeared in her role as the Goddess of Death, resurrecting the clerk and explaining how the angel's illness had been cured, and Alan and Asmodeus were currently ten feet off the stage, hugging while suspended by the wires. Nina had managed a second wing harness hidden behind a piece of scenery for Asmodeus to struggle into after he 'died,' so both had white, fluffy wings extended behind them. The music reached a triumphant high note before fading to silence, and everyone held their positions.

After long enough for the curtain to close in a real production, they all relaxed, grinning happily at how well the run-through had gone for a first try in the costumes. The other performers came out onstage to talk over different elements and how they had worked, and Alan and Asmodeus were brought down from the wires carefully.

"You two were brilliant!" Grell squealed, hugging Alan. "Oh, that was so lovely~ 'Deus, dear, you need to work on banging around less while getting those wings on, though. Someone in the audience might hear you." She swished around in her elaborate goddess robes, absolutely beaming, and then turned to the Duke. "Your Grace, what did you think?"

"I do not like this ending," William said sharply. 

No one moved. They were too stunned to even react to the comment properly. The story had been finalized for weeks. Why was Duke William objecting now?

The nobleman got up from his seat, folding his arms sternly. "Why would an immortal being choose death over the opportunity to stay alive, even if it does turn out well? He has no way of knowing that."

Ronald piped up sheepishly from his place beside Eric, "Well, but an angel couldn't condone killing that many people..."

"But surely he would see how it would be more beneficial to stay alive. That allows the angel the opportunity to do more good in the future, and he could stay with the prince and have any luxury he could want."

"An' angel wouldn' care abou' luxury an' that kinda stuff," Eric said, feeling defensive. He'd been responsible for a large portion of the story, after all.

The Duke scowled, feeling more suspicious now. He turned his attention fully to Eric. "And how would you know? Are you some sort of expert on angelic ideology?"

The songwriter scowled right back. "No. I jus' know."

"The ending has the potential to be adjusted to make more logical sense." If looks could kill, both men would be impaled through the heart. The rest of the room was silent, watching them with baited breath to see how this conversation would end.

"Th' endin' is fine," Eric huffed. "I's a love story. It doesn' need t' be logical."

"But who does it make more sense for the angel to fall for? A penniless clerk, or a rich prince who can provide a cure for his illness and a secure, stable future?" As Duke William spoke, he started to see more and more parallels, and that just irritated him further. "The angel should be _grateful_ that the prince is willing to provide a cure to his illness."

Eric scoffed. "Grateful? It's not like he asked th' prince f'r th' cure."

"Regardless, if someone offers such a favor, or their time or money, are they not entitled to compensation for that?" the nobleman hissed. "That is how the world works. Why shouldn't the prince expect gratitude or compensation? Why shouldn't he expect the angel to spend time around him in return?"

"B'cause yer not entitled t' him!" Eric shouted. His eyes widened as soon as he finished speaking, realizing his mistake. "Th' prince," he tried to correct quickly. "I meant... th' prince...isn'..." Somewhere along the way, the prince and the Duke had ended up too similar, and now Eric was paying the price of that.

Duke William's stare could have set the entire Moulin on fire. He turned back to Grell, his voice icy in contrast as he said, "The ending will be rewritten to my specifications. Or I am leaving, and will take full repayment of my loans."

If they had to repay what the Duke had given them, it would take a significant amount of the former bordello's funds. But worse than a lack of money was the fact that the Duke held the deeds. He could take _everything_ , and they would have no grounds to stop him.

Alan, after a quick look around at everyone's suppressed panic, took a deep breath and put on a smile, coming down from the stage to approach the Duke. He'd murder Eric for this later. "Everyone, we need to be reasonable. Duke William is an important part of this show and his opinion is perfectly valid." He reached up to touch William's cheek, beaming, though the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Slingby has many presumptions about me. People like him can be so ridiculous. But perhaps we can discuss the ending over dinner tonight, and I can attempt to explain what we were thinking."

For a moment, it looked like Eric was going to object, but Ronald elbowed him sharply and he kept his mouth shut. Grell, meanwhile, fluttered down off the stage as well, grin firmly in place. "I will have an incredible dinner made up in the Gothic Tower. It will be lovely, and totally private!"

"See that it is," Duke William scowled.

Grell beamed. "I will have someone inform the kitchens immediately." She turned back to the stage, ushering Alan back that way and calling, "The rest of you, get ready for another run-through. We'll start from the big group number in the square." As Alan climbed back up onto the stage, Grell made to follow him, but the Duke caught her arm and held her back.

"If I see them together again, I will have Lawrence _deal_ with the problem," he said coldly. "Permanently."

The redhead's eyes widened, but she nodded stiffly. "Of course, my dear Duke. I will make sure things go smoothly from now on."

"See that you do." He turned on his heel and walked up the aisle, not looking back as he disappeared out the door. Grell watched him go, smile slipping just a bit, and wondered how such a good idea had gone so wrong.

* * *

Another rehearsal passed in a flash, since they were only running roughly three-quarters of the show instead of the whole thing. Alan hurried back to his room afterwards to change out of the angel costume and into something more presentable for dinner. He went for a more formal look, choosing fitted black pants and slip-on black ankle boots with a moderate heel. A long-sleeved white blouse and a silver, corset-style vest that laced up the front completed the outfit. Other than pale blue sapphire earrings, he opted not to bother with extravagant jewelry. It would just end up being tossed aside by the end of the night, anyway, though he tried not to think about that.

He was looking through his case of makeup when there was a knock at the door. "Come in," he called, expecting that it was Asmodeus wanting to give him a pep-talk. Or a critique of his outfit. Or both.

But it was Eric who opened the door, stepping inside and shutting it behind him. He was silent a moment, taking in Alan's outfit wordlessly, before finally saying in a subdued voice, "Y'don' have t'do this, Alan."

"Eric..."

"Y'don't! He's got no righ' t' expect somethin' like this!"

Alan sighed. "The implication when I agreed to have dinner this time was clear. He's not going to be happy unless I sleep with him." He pulled out his powder and eyeliner, setting them neatly on the table as he rummaged for his lip gloss. Flavorless, tonight, would probably be best. No glitter. Once he found it, he set it with the eyeliner and picked up the powder and his large, fluffy brush. A dusting of powder helped even out his skin tone overtop of the foundation he was already wearing, and then he realized that Eric hadn't responded to his last comment. "Eric?" He met the other's eyes in the mirror.

Eric looked away. "I hate him. Th' Duke; I hate him. I hate that he's go' so much power over us."

"I know." Alan abandoned the makeup and got up, wrapping his arms around Eric and leaning into him. "I hate it too. But if the Duke withdraws funding now, that's it. Everything is over. The Moulin will be ruined and most everyone here will be homeless. I can't do that to them." He nuzzled into Eric's chest. "I have to do this. For the theatre. For my friends."

"I know y'have to. But it hurts. He doesn' care abou' ya at all." Eric's voice was muffled into Alan's hair, arms tight around him.

"It'll be all right," Alan murmured. "It has to be. It's just another week or so until opening night. We just have to hold out a little longer."

Eric sighed. "If y'say so, Alan." He had to believe that. At this point, that was the only thing that might save them.

* * *

Bard, head chef of the Moulin Rouge, had retreated back to his kitchen after rehearsal. As much as he liked playing the owner of the shop where the clerk worked, he was happier in his kitchen. Ten years at the Moulin had given him the chance to hone his skills to expert-level, after all.

However, it was extremely distracting to have his boss and coworker having a debate about the Duke's 'requests' for the evening behind him, not to mention the courtesan leaning over and trying to steal bits of biscuit dough out of the bowl. "'Deus, keep your damn hands to yourself," he ordered, smacking at the hand with his spoon.

"But it's chewy and buttery and good!" Asmodeus objected, rubbing at his hand.

"These are for the Duke, you handsy bastard!"

"Even more reason to take them!"

"Asmodeus!" Grell called. "Stop that; I need to talk to you." She waved him over, and Bard breathed a sigh of relief. Grell had already drilled into him how important it was that the food be perfect; maybe she'd leave him alone to cook in favor of focusing on Harold and Asmodeus.

The courtesan went over to join the head server and Grell, shooting Harold a puzzled look. "What's going on?"

"It's about tonight," Grell said, looking much more agitated than usual. "When Alan has dinner with the Duke in the Gothic Tower, he has insisted that there be as few staff present as possible. Harold is going to personally oversee dinner being served, with just Ollie and Finny with him, and they will leave immediately as soon as all the dishes have been arranged."

Asmodeus nodded. "But what does that have to do with me?"

Grell frowned, knowing even before she spoke that he wasn't going to like what she had to say. "You may walk Alan to the Tower, but you can't stay there. You have to come back to the main area of the Moulin afterwards."

It took a second for what Grell was saying to actually sink in, and then Asmodeus looked taken aback. "It shouldn't matter whether I'm there or not. I stay outside of the door."

"The Duke has explicitly said that he doesn't want anyone else in the Tower," Grell said apologetically. "That includes you, 'Deus."

"But the rules are that I'm outside the door if it's a new client or someone we're not sure about!" Asmodeus cried furiously. "And I'm definitely not sure about the Duke! I'm his _bodyguard_ , Grell; I have to do my job!"

Harold put a hand on the courtesan's shoulder. "'Deus, the circumstances are different from usual--"

"I don't care about the circumstances! My job is to keep him safe, and I don't trust that guy!"

Grell scowled. "You job is to listen to _me_. I am your _boss_ , Asmodeus. And I have to think of everyone who works here, not just Alan." Her voice was sharp, brooking no disagreement. This was all they could do; no one had another choice. Not her, not Alan, not any of the other staff.

Asmodeus glared, but didn't counter, instead shrugging off Harold and storming from the room. He smacked a container of garlic seasoning off the side counter as he went, clearly angry. "Oi!" Bard shouted from the stove, but thankfully the container hadn't busted. For a moment, Grell and Harold exchanged a look, and she considered going after him, but it wouldn't change anything.

For the moment, the Duke had won.


	22. El Tango de Roxanne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-con warning for this chapter, but if you know Moulin Rouge, you knew that was coming, yeah?

The night was cloudless, though the stars overhead were mostly drowned out by the Moulin's typical array of lights. But down at one end the Gothic Tower stood, with no outside lights save a pair of lamps on either side of the door. It was a very specific sort of clientele that usually preferred the ominous-looking accommodations. Alan hadn't been in here since Thomas had picked one of the rooms in a fit of curiosity a year or two previous, and that made him nervous as he ascended the stairs. He knew most of the other rooms well enough to know escape routes and ways to defend himself in case of an emergency, but this one was unfamiliar.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Alan bit his lip, glancing sideways at his closest friend. At Asmodeus's suggestion, he'd added an elegant black jacket with a longer, slightly ruffled back to his outfit, and now he adjusted it nervously as he tried to figure out how to answer the other courtesan's question. "Yeah, 'Deus... I'm all right..." He offered a blank, perfectly calculated smile. "I have to be, after all."

"That smile doesn't work on me," Asmodeus admonished, trying for a smile of his own but missing the mark a bit. "But hopefully it works on the Duke."

"Hopefully..." The last thing that they needed was the Duke thinking that Alan's heart wasn't in their meeting. As they stopped outside of the door to the main room of the Gothic Tower, both courtesans took a deep breath. Five flights of stairs really hadn't been long enough for either of them to come to grips with this situation. Neither would ever admit they were frightened, but when Alan turned to give Asmodeus a last hug, he held on for just a moment too long.

"I'm sorry I can't stay," Asmodeus sighed, squeezing him. Grell had explained the situation to Alan as well, and while he'd been displeased, there was nothing he could do either.

Alan shook his head, taking a step back and straightening his vest. "If the Duke wants me so badly, he won't want to damage me. I'll be all right." He turned to the door, not seeing the way that Asmodeus almost reached out to pull him back. Taking one last deep breath, he opened the door and slipped inside.

The long, elegant table was lit by silver candelabras, as well as larger, more elaborate candleholders around the walls of the room. Grell had ordered out the finest china, crystal, and silverware that the Moulin possessed, suitable for a noble of the Duke's rank and for the importance of the evening. Dark, heavy tapestries and stone columns gave the room its intense atmosphere, and through a sheer black curtain on the far side of the room, Alan could see the large, intimidating king-sized bed. He eyed the balcony, wondering absently if there was anything below that could break a fall from five stories up, but abandoned that line of thought to put on a charming smile as the Duke got up from the sitting area in the corner.

"Mr. Humphries," Duke William said, coming over to take his hand and kiss the back. 

Alan swallowed hard, smile still in place, and replied, "Duke William. It is an honor to be having dinner with you like this." He took his hand back and slipped off his gloves, slowly, setting them on a side table to be retrieved in the morning, as that would likely be the next time he would have reason to put them back on.

William gestured to the long table, which had a place setting arranged at either end in a painfully formal setup. "Dinner will be served in a few minutes. I took the liberty of arranging for the finest menu the Moulin Rouge has to offer." 

Looking everything over was almost a relief to the stressed courtesan, who was grateful to not have to sit too close to the dark-haired man. Any extra time to prepare himself mentally was welcome. He sat down when the Duke pulled out his chair for him, carefully making sure the ruffles on his jacket weren't crushed. "Our chef is one of the best in Montmartre. I'm sure the food will be wonderful."

As the Duke took a seat, Harold entered the tower room, flanked by Ollie and Finny. They carried covered silver dishes, which were arranged neatly on the table. Harold bowed halfway to the Duke, gesturing to the dishes. "As you ordered, Your Grace. All of the courses have been brought in at once and arranged in the proper order."

"They're not being brought one at a time?" Alan asked curiously.

The Duke smiled. "I wish for nothing to interrupt our evening. Not even waitstaff." To the three waiters, he said, "Thank you. You may go now."

Alan couldn't believe it. Even the waitstaff wouldn't be in the tower? He really was going to be stuck alone with the obsessive nobleman? He caught Ollie and Finny giving him sympathetic looks, but that was the only reaction any of the three waiters showed to the situation. They merely bowed again and left again without another word. The only other noise made was the click of the door being locked, so that no one would be able to disturb them for the remainder of the evening.

"Shall we eat, Alan?" the Duke asked, and Alan noted the switch to the more familiar use of his name.

He inclined his head, acknowledging the Duke's words while thinking, _Here goes everything._ "Of course, Your Grace."

"Please, Alan, call me William."

Alan swallowed hard, but smiled. "As you wish...William."

* * *

Down in the main room of the Moulin, Grell had made a last-minute decision to close for the evening, as none of the employees seemed to have the heart to entertain. They were mostly draped all over the stairs and chairs, looking deflated and nervous. Alan had essentially gone to the Tower to save them all, and all they could do was wait and see how things ended up.

Eric was at a table in the corner with Ronald, a single beer sitting in front of him in contrast to the three Ronald had already finished. He didn't even really want to drink; his nerves were too tightly wound. He didn't trust the Duke not to hurt Alan if something went wrong, and it was impossibly frustrating to not be allowed into the Tower to keep watch. Even more frustrating was the fact that Asmodeus hadn't come back yet. It would be good to talk to him. But he was close to Alan; he'd probably gone back to his room to worry on his own.

"He'll be fine," Ronald said, waving to catch Eric's attention. "The Duke can't hurt him. We'd know it was him. He'd get in so much trouble if he hurt the theatre's Star Sapphire."

"But he's a git," Eric objected. "An' if he's got th' deeds like Grell says, he's go' enough power t' brush off any trouble he migh' get into."

Ronald frowned. "I...guess that's true. But he wants the show to succeed. He wouldn't hurt the lead."

The songwriter laughed bitterly. Normally, that would be a perfectly reasonable assumption to make. But they were talking about a man who had demanded the deeds to the theatre, who acted like Alan was a possession to own, and who had been nothing but cold and indifferent towards the Moulin when he wasn't showing outright disgust. Eric wouldn't put it past William to hurt Alan to keep him.

"Waitin' is killin' me," he said, instead of all the terrible things he wanted to say about the Duke.

"Well, moping isn't going to help," Ronald said, pushing Eric's beer towards him. "And Grell might literally kill us if we go to the Tower. So what else can we do?"

Eric sighed. "I don't know..."

* * *

Dinner was awkward, but Alan had been in situations just as bad, with men far more sleazy. Honestly, though, as he nibbled absently at his food, he thought he would almost rather be stuck with one of those men. He knew how to handle them. The Duke was an unknown element beyond standard flattery. It also didn't help that his cough seemed to be acting up, though thankfully it wasn't bad enough to cause him to be as ill as it had in the past. He briefly entertained the thought that he might be allergic to the Duke, but quickly returned to doing his best to make it through dinner without incident.

The food was excellent, as expected for the high standards Grell set for the Moulin. They had uncovered each dish one at a time in the appropriate order, and even the normally-picky Duke had offered his compliments for the quality of the meal. There had been freshly-baked rolls with butter, and then a creamy French onion soup, and now for the entree, sautéed trout with raspberry vinaigrette and tarragon.

"Gothic architecture is such a fine style," Duke William commented as they ate. "Elegant, but also giving off a sense of stability and strength. I am rather pleased that Ms. Sutcliffe chose this room for us to spend the evening."

Alan picked at his fish, taking only small bites. It was good, but his nerves were getting to him. "I am not up here often," he replied, trying to keep his voice light and carefree, though he had to stifle a cough. "But it is certainly a lovely room. The style sets a mood well."

The Duke nodded. "Though I must admit, while this room is very much to my tastes, I would take any room that would allow me to share your company. You are a gem among the other rabble of this neighborhood. Normally I would not associate with prostitutes and bohemians, but someone as lovely as you is someone I can make an exception for."

"And it's quite an honor to receive such attention for a noble such as yourself, William." Referring to the Duke so informally made Alan terribly uncomfortable, but the dark-haired man had insisted. He finished his fish, glancing at the still-covered dishes of salad and dessert and mentally gauging how much longer he had. They still hadn't spoken about the ending of the show, either. Perhaps he could hold the nobleman off a while longer.

Salads were uncovered and once again the chef's cooking was complimented. As they ate, Alan finally spoke up, hoping that the Duke would be content with all of the good food and thus in a good mood. "Now, William, about the ending to the show..." He stifled another cough in his napkin. "Excuse me..."

"Ah, yes." William took a sip of his third glass of wine and raised an eyebrow. "I still believe that the ending should be changed. I simply find it utterly unrealistic for the angel to choose to die for a man who can offer him nothing, when the Prince will give him his life back and anything else he could wish for."

"Love is a strange thing, Duke William," Alan said. "Don't you think?"

"Indeed." The Duke fixed him with a look that could only be described as hungry, and Alan shivered a bit at the intensity of that gaze. "It is certainly strange that I would find myself so charmed by someone like you, but things are what they are."

Alan knew exactly where this was going, and tried desperately to steer the conversation back to more practical matters. "Yes, they are. But in all honestly, if you keep in mind what an unpredictable thing love is, the current ending makes a great deal of sense..." It was obvious to him that William was only half-listening at this point, but he kept talking, hoping to delay the inevitable a while longer. "Plus all of the rehearsal time and music rewrites..." Why was William just _staring_ at him like that? Like a predator... "And even though the prince's love is blatant, it would be the expected ending, so the subversion of choosing the penniless clerk is a rather unique twist..."

The heavy wooden chair scraped the floor as the Duke pushed it back and stood, coming over to pull Alan's chair out as well. He leaned over, settling a hand on the young man's shoulder and leaning in close. His voice low, he said, "You deserve someone who wants you as fervently as the prince wants the angel. I could give you all that you would ever want, if you simply gave me the opportunity to show you..." His fingertips drifted across to the button holding Alan's collar closed, and the courtesan reached up to catch his fingers, pressing a light kiss to the knuckles.

"We still have dessert," Alan said lightly, hoping faintly that that might deter the other man from going after his clothes for a little longer, at least. But William did not return to his seat, instead shifting to grip Alan's hand in return and pull him to his feet.

"Come to the balcony with me, before dessert. I have something for you."

* * *

Down in the main room, Eric had managed to make it through his beer, but had turned down any more than that. Drinking himself into a stupor would help Alan even less than just sitting here.

The other employees were either drinking, fooling around with the music, or just sitting and talking in hushed voices. Asmodeus still hadn't reappeared, and Eric was beginning to think he should just follow the courtesan's example and go back to his flat. At least that would stop all of the sympathetic looks being tossed his way.

He almost didn't notice the skinny blond creeping up to his table until Alois was practically in his lap, a wide grin on his face.

"Don't worry, handsome," Alois cooed, almost mockingly. "You'll get your happy ending...right after the Duke gets his~"

Eric growled. He shoved the brat away from him, and Alois almost tumbled back down the stairs. Fortunately, or not, Claude grabbed him by the arm and stopped his fall. Normally Alois would take the opportunity to fawn over his rescuer, but he was too busy glaring at Eric. "Alan deserves to get in trouble for this! He was the one two-timing the Duke and playing games! It'll be good for him to have to talk himself out of this!"

"Yer a jealous brat! If he gets hurt, it'll be yer fault!" Eric cried. He started to get up, and Ronald grabbed his arm.

"Eric, don't!"

There was a sudden chord on the piano, and a spotlight illuminated their boss, standing down in the center of the floor. Everyone froze, looking at Grell, and Grell looked around at them all in return. "You’re one to talk about jealousy. Now, isn’t this a familiar scene!" she said, striking a pose. "It always goes the same way. Jealousy is such an insidious thing~ It sharpens and twists deeper and deeper, until it finally pierces your heart~” There were a few giggles from around the room, but Grell ignored them, enjoying the drama of the moment too much. Rudgar was matching her with the appropriate dramatic chords, though he didn't look overly thrilled at being recruited into Grell's pantomine, and as she cried, “One jealous soul!” someone took command of a spotlight and matched her grand gesture by cutting it on and shining it at an unlucky Sebastian. Grell finished with a sultry, soft, “…will destroy the other.”

Ronald and several of the other people in the room laughed and hollered at Sebastian, and Sebastian shrugged, rolling his eyes and heading down onto the floor to where Grell was. She took a space across from him, and another of the musicians, picking up the cue in the piano chords, began a low violin melody. All of the Moulin's musicians were used to having to improvise to their employer's odd musical whims, and several of the others scrambled for their instruments, sensing a tango coming on. Counting off in their heads against the violin, they struck up one of the more provocative tangos in their repertoire, as Grell and Sebastian began to circle each other.

"First there is desire~" Grell crooned, and they stepped closer, a hair's breadth from touching as they continued to circle. "Then passion~" The violin grew more frantic, and Sebastian, still looking rather exasperated with being dragged into things, nonetheless obliged and pulled her into a proper tango hold. Grell batted her eyes at him, and then continued with her story. "But then," and she cast a longing look across the room at Eric, who glared back, "there is suspicion!"

Sebastian caught her wrist, playing along as only someone in a theatre troupe could. Grell tried to pull away, crying, "Jealously! Anger! Betrayal!" But Sebastian held her fast, spinning her around before pulling her back to him and dipping her backwards. She matched his every step in a flawless tango as they moved across the floor in dramatic, sharp motions that perfectly complemented what she was saying. "When love is something that you pay for, there is no trust. With no trust, it's hardly love at all! Jealousy would drive someone mad~!"

A few other pairs of dancers had ventured onto the floor, falling into step with the tango as well, and Eric found himself glaring at all of them. How dare Grell? How dare any of them? The sidelong looks in his direction from those who weren't dancing had somehow gotten even more sympathetic, and he resisted the urge to lash out at all of them. Were they implying that he was mad, for being worried? Or for daring to not want Alan to sleep with that disgusting, manipulative duke? Imagining Duke William's hands anywhere near Alan was almost physically painful, and what was even worse was the implication that he couldn’t trust Alan, or that Alan didn’t trust him. He had agreed to this, if reluctantly, and he trusted Alan to come back to him once everything was over.

Seething, Eric pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey!" Ronald said. "Where are you going?"

"Back t'my flat. I can' stay here. It's more than I can stand." He walked along the side of the room, pointedly not looking at the people watching him go or the crowd of dancers that had formed to follow Grell's lead. Idiots, all of them, dancing when things were so dire. Even once he'd gotten out of the Moulin and into the courtyard, he resisted the urge to stop and look towards the Gothic Tower, just heading straight for the gate. He'd never felt so helpless in his life.

* * *

Alan allowed himself to be led through the thin curtains and onto the balcony, where the Moulin glowed dramatically against the darker skyline. He had a perfect view of the path to the entrance from this high up, as well as the windmill that turned steadily over the gate.

Duke William stood just behind him, close enough that a single shift would put them in contact, and Alan stood very still, nervous.

"It is a lovely night, isn't it?" the dark-haired noble commented. "Such clear skies."

"It's a shame the lights drown out the stars..." Alan murmured absently. "I would like to see them clearly one day."

His mind was racing a mile a minute, trying to figure out what the Duke was planning to do, but his thoughts stopped when William pulled out a velvet-lined box and said, "I have the only stars I need right here. The Star Sapphire of the Moulin Rouge and the gift I have brought for him." He opened the box to reveal a stunning necklace of diamonds and violet star sapphires, set into intricate silver. 

Alan tried not to gasp. He'd received many gifts from his clients over the years, each more impressive than the last, but this necklace was truly a work of art. It was gorgeous, and even had his favorite gemstones. Despite his title as the "Star Sapphire", no one had ever given him one. They chose diamonds, or emeralds that matched his eyes. But this was a perfect piece of jewelry.

"A lovely gift for a truly lovely young man."

That certainly drew him back to reality. Had the necklace come from any other person, he would happily accept it and cherish it. But in this situation, that would be silently agreeing to something he wasn't willing to be part of. Alan took a deep breath. "It's beautiful, but I couldn't possibly..." He couldn't fight, as the Duke undid the top two buttons of his shirt and settled the necklace around his neck, but hopefully he could find the appropriate moment to fully explain that he could not accept this gift. It rode high, like a tall collar, and swooped down to his collarbones in a sparkle of jewels, but no matter how lovely it was, he couldn't keep it.

Duke William pressed against his back, wrapping an arm around his waist and leaning in to speak against his ear. "Be mine, Alan. Be mine, and I shall let the show run with its current ending, and you shall never want for anything again."

Coming from anyone else, it might have sounded romantic. _Be mine._ But all that Alan could hear was _mine._ He knew that the Duke didn't love him; he wanted to _own_ him, like a trinket or a prize.

Like a _pet._

Suddenly the necklace around his throat truly did feel like a collar, choking him. He tried not to go stiff as he felt William's lips against his neck and hands on his torso, instead casting around his gaze in a desperate attempt to distract himself. When had it become so difficult to just detach from the situation?

But then he saw a familiar figure walking the path towards the entrance. Eric, looking forlorn and unhappy, dragging his feet and obviously returning to his apartment for the night, alone. There was his answer. Eric was when things had become difficult, because Eric had showed him what it was like to actually be loved, and to love in return. Alan watched the one he loved looking miserable and before he'd actually made a conscious decision, he'd already spoken the word.

"No." It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to get the Duke to pause in what he was doing.

"Excuse me?"

"No," Alan said again, louder, pulling away slightly. "I'm sorry, I... I can't. Please, forgive me, but..." He couldn't do it. He didn't want the Duke, or anyone else. He wanted Eric.

William glanced over the edge of the balcony, where Eric was just heading into the gate, and his face twisted into a scowl. "So that is the choice you've made..."

Alan's eyes widened at the venom suddenly in his tone, and he stepped away from the Duke, walking quickly past him and back into the tower. He fully intended to take the necklace off, leave, and deal with the consequences later. But he didn't get the chance before William took him by the arm and ripped the necklace off of him. In a dark, almost monstrous voice, the Duke said, "Now I see, the problem was never just Slingby's _presumptions._ The fault lies just as much with _you._ " Alan felt the clasp snap and saw the necklace clatter to the floor just before he was thrown into the table. Dishes shattered, and Alan barely had time to orient himself before he was grabbed once again and tossed to the floor.

"You lied to me. You made me think you _loved_ me!" William snarled. "The picnic, the afternoons spent together, the insistence on making things 'special', and it was all nothing but lies, because you were dallying with the songwriter!" As Alan scrambled back to his feet, eyes wide with panic, William caught hold of him again, not to throw, but to trap within his hold.

"No!" Alan cried out and tried to pull away, but the Duke was stronger than he looked, and held the slender courtesan fast. He stripped Alan's fine jacket off and ripped out the strings of the corset-style vest he wore. Alan jerked away, stumbling around the table in a desperate bid to escape, but William grabbed him by the back of the collar, trapping him with a hold around his neck and ripping his vest and shirt off. Buttons pinged away into the corners of the room, and Alan whimpered, as the Duke continued to force his clothes off until nothing remained but his stockings and undergarments.

"You are to be promised only to me," William growled, dragging Alan across the room and practically hurling him onto the large, intimidating bed. "You are the gem of this unsightly 'theatre'. I consider you fair compensation for the work that I've put in."

Alan scrambled towards the headboard, pulling his knees up, determined to try to kick if he needed to. He'd misjudged this man. He'd been so caught up with Eric and his own feelings, he'd missed the suppressed rage lurking beneath the Duke's surface. He'd missed the signs that the man was capable of something like this. And now that rage was directed at him, and he was genuinely afraid. If only Asmodeus hadn't been ordered not to stay...

Alan kicked out as the Duke climbed onto the bed. But William just grabbed his ankle, forcing his leg to the side, leaving him open and vulnerable. "P-Please! Stop...!"

William just forced himself closer. "I will _make_ you yield to me." He reached for what little clothing the courtesan had left, and Alan thrashed and shouted, begging for help, for mercy, until in desperation a name slipped from his lips.

"Eric!"

The Duke backhanded him and left him seeing stars, and he let out a shocked, pained cry. "You dare speak of him in front of me?" the nobleman snarled. "You made me believe that you loved me! But you cry out for _him!_ "

He raised his hand to strike Alan again, but another hand wrapped around his wrist and jerked him backwards, throwing him off-balance and making it easy for the unknown hand to fling him away. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, but when he did, he saw Asmodeus standing at the end of the bed, between him and Alan, pointing a knife at him.

"Don't touch him," Asmodeus said sharply, clearly furious. His expression was darker than even Alan had ever seen it.

"You presume to tell _me_ what to do?" William snapped. "He belongs to me. I am a Duke, you common whore. A mutt like you cannot do _anything_ to me." He started forward, and Asmodeus dropped the knife and promptly clocked him in the face, sending him sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

"Shit..." Grell was going to kill him. But he could worry about that later. He had to focus on Alan now. The other courtesan hadn't moved, his face pale and his breath coming in sharp, fast gasps, occasionally interrupted with raspy-sounding coughs. Asmodeus hurried over and pulled him up, wrapping his arms tight around his friend. That medicine Undertaker and Othello had made wasn't here; talking him through it would have to be enough. "Come on, Alan, breathe with me. Calm. We need to get out of here." He took a deep breath and felt Alan try to do the same. "Good. Good. Shh... You're safe. I'll take you to Eric..." In... Out... Shallow breaths, but steady. Calm. Once Alan's breathing had evened somewhat, Asmodeus curled an arm around his waist. He stopped just long enough to grab a thick, warm robe from a rack and get Alan into it, before leading him from the tower. It wasn't worth trying to gather his likely-ruined clothes, and he didn't want to risk the Duke waking up before they were well away. The trip down seemed far quicker than going up, and Asmodeus took them out a side gate to avoid going through the main entrance, where anyone else might see them. Instead, he led Alan out into the cold, dark street, heading for the only place his friend would likely feel safe.

* * *

When Duke William finally struggled back into consciousness, the first thing he did was summon Lawrence up to the suite. Lawrence had been baffled by his injured state, but had retrieved a wet napkin for him to dab at his split lip delicately.

"What happened?" Lawrence asked. He was not officially the Duke's bodyguard, but he often filled the role, and to find that someone had injured William while he hadn't been there was disconcerting. "Surely Alan Humphries did not do this to you."

"No, it was that other whore. The violet-haired one that hovers around him," William said coldly. "I specifically ordered that no one be in this tower but Alan and I, but he barged his way in and attacked me." He hissed as he accidentally pressed too hard on a sore spot, but then added, his eyes burning with jealousy, "It's not him that's the problem, though. It's Slingby. Anderson, we are going to remain here until the show on New Year’s Eve, and if you see even a glimpse of the songwriter, I want him dead. Do you understand?"

Lawrence nodded. Things had gotten a bit out of their control, but he was loyal to the Duke. Eric Slingby would not interfere any longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna just say once again that this has no bearing on how I see Will as a character. I love him a lot, and I know he's not like this. I am absolutely aware that I am pushing his believable characterization.
> 
> (Also, sorry, I know technically Alois and Claude were meant to do the tango based on which characters they are, but I HAD to. XDDD)


	23. The Show Must Go On

Eric hadn't been quite sure how he was going to react to Alan the next morning. He'd told Alan that he understood why Alan had to sleep with the Duke, but really, he was terribly jealous. Yes, the Duke had the power to hurt them all, badly, but there was still something infuriating about the knowledge that he was touching the person most precious to Eric. And he couldn't seem to decide whether or not he felt angry at Alan for not trying to find another way, for just giving in to William and Grell's demands.

However, no matter what he'd been envisioning occurring the next morning, he'd never imagined opening the door after a particularly loud knock at just past eleven to the sight of a crying Alan and an extremely grim-looking Asmodeus.

"Eric!" Alan cried, flinging his arms around the taller man and clutching to him tightly.

Eric wrapped an arm around Alan's waist, drawing him farther into the flat and holding him tight. "What's wrong, Alan? Aren't ya supposed t'be at th' Tower?" But Alan's only response was a harsh sob against the songwriter's shoulder, and Eric looked to Asmodeus for an explanation.

The other courtesan shut the door and sighed. "We've just come from the Tower. Things...didn't quite go like they were meant to."

"T-The Duke..." Alan whimpered. "I saw you d-down in the c-courtyard... And I couldn't do it. I c-couldn't let him touch me like that. I didn't want him... But he saw, he saw you too, and he got angry, and tried to... to..." The courtesan pressed his face into Eric's shoulder, shuddering, and for the first time Eric realized he was dressed in a long robe, and didn't seem to be wearing anything more than stockings and undergarments beneath it. It finally sunk in, what his lover was implying, and pushed him back by the shoulders to look him over more thoroughly.

"Are ya all righ'? Did he hurt you?" A cursory look picked out scratches on the back and sides of his neck, but other than that, he was bundled up well enough to hide any further injuries.

Alan shook his head. "I've got...bruises. K-Knees and elbows...I think." He wanted to insist that he was fine, but he couldn't get his voice to cooperate. It was wavery and uncertain, and it was taking everything that he had just to keep standing and not collapse back against Eric. This shouldn't have been affecting him so badly. He'd been in situations almost as bad before. But...none of those situations had ever had so much at stake. And no one had ever done such a complete personality shift before. The Duke...was a monster.

It was taking Eric a great deal of willpower not to go find the disgusting noble that had nearly raped Alan and stomp him into the dirt, even if Alan's only injuries were bruises. But Alan was more important than revenge, right now. Alan was always more important, and he stroked soft brown hair and held him tight, trying to be comforting.

Asmodeus glanced down at his hand, curling and uncurling his fist absently. "I punched him."

"Y'punched the Duke?!"

"He was trying to hurt Alan! I knocked him unconscious." Asmodeus frowned. "I could have stabbed him; I wanted to...but I didn't."

"Y'should've," Eric huffed. "An' honestly, 'm jealous ya got t' deck him. I'd rip him apart righ' now, if I could get m'hands on him." He brushed Alan's bangs back from tearful green eyes, and kissed his forehead. "He's no' here, Alan. Yer safe." Nudging him towards the flat's tiny bathroom, he encouraged, "Go on, wash yer face an' clean up a bit. There's some stuff o' mine in there y'can put on if ya want."

Alan nodded against his chest, though his movements were slow and reluctant as he pulled away and headed for the other room. Both the songwriter and the other courtesan watched until the door shut behind him, and then Asmodeus sighed, still looking uncharacteristically serious.

"He can't stay here..."

Eric nodded reluctantly. "Probably no' good f'r him t'be found with me, if th' Duke's really in such a state..."

"No, I mean it. He cannot stay here, at the Moulin," Asmodeus countered. He glanced over as the sound of the shower running eminated from behind the bathroom door, and then continued, "This duke... He's dangerous, if he's willing to do something like this. And if not him, if by some miracle we manage to keep Alan safe from him, what happens when someone else comes along who's worse?" The violet-haired man pressed his fists over his eyes in frustration. "I can't protect him from everything. You have to take him and get out of here. Go back to England, go to Scotland, _anywhere_." His voice wavered. "He loves you. You both would be fine, so long as you go somewhere that the Duke can't reach."

"...y'love him." It was so obvious now, Eric didn't know whether to be ashamed of not noticing it sooner, or to be admiring of how well Asmodeus had managed to hide it for so long.

"I..." The other courtesan laughed weakly. "Yeah. For a long time, actually. But as long as he's happy... That's all I want, Eric. Like I said, he loves you." Somewhere in the background, the shower cut off, and they could hear Alan moving around the small bathroom.

"...Y'really think we can get away, 'Deus?" Eric asked. It was so tempting to think about it, having a life with Alan that didn't involve hiding from the Duke.

Asmodeus nodded. "You just have to convince him. He won't want to go. Stubborn little git." He giggled a bit. "Always has been..."

Both of them looked over when Alan emerged from the bathroom, dressed in a pair of Eric's pants with the drawstring waist tied tight and the hems rolled up, and one of his button-down shirts. Eric gathered the brunet back into his arms, and Alan leaned against him, no longer crying but still wobbly.

"'Deus, how did you get there in time?" Alan asked, his voice soft. "Grell told you not to stay..."

Asmodeus smiled sheepishly. "I didn't obey. I hid back in the hallway until Harold and friends went back downstairs, and I listened. Unfortunately Harold locked the door, so it took me a minute to break in, but I wasn't leaving you up there with him."

Alan's fingers tightened in Eric's shirt, and he shivered. _"Thank you,"_ he said emphatically. "Thank you... If you hadn't been there..."

"Don't think about it," Asmodeus said quickly. "It's all right. You're safe; that's all that matters, darling."

"Alan..." Eric said quietly. Asmodeus moved over to sit on the couch, out of the way, as the blond spoke. "Alan, we can' keep goin' like this."

"W-What do you mean?" Alan asked shakily, looking up at him.

"We should go. T' England. T' Scotland. Away from here. Where th' Duke can't get us."

Alan's eyes widened. "What... But... I can't. I... The Moulin... The show, what about the show?"

"Th' show's not more important than yer safety," Eric countered. "An' th' Duke's obviously not th' sort t' care about ya."

"I can't just... 'Deus, tell him!" Alan looked over at the violet-haired courtesan imploringly, but Asmodeus just shook his head.

"You can. And you should. The Moulin will be fine."

"Whatever ya want, Alan. That's what's waitin'," Eric said, gripping Alan's shoulders and meeting his gaze when he turned back to him. "If y'want to continue bein' a star, we'll go somewhere like London. If y'want a house with a garden, we'll find one. Anythin'. I love ya, and I want ya t' be happy. And yer not happy here."

Alan stared at him, his eyes wide and frightened. He had been a courtesan for years now. It was difficult to imagine just leaving all of that behind, all of a sudden. Even with Eric. He stepped back, turning to Asmodeus and almost pleading, "But Grell... Ronald, Nina... You...! I can't just...!"

Asmodeus sighed, getting up and coming over to cup Alan's face. "You love Eric, yes?"

Alan nodded.

Asmodeus looked him right in the eyes. "Grell, good intentions or not, is the reason we're in this mess. The others in the Moulin will understand that your well-being is important, and if they don't, who cares about them? And I..." He paused, and behind Alan, Eric could see him struggling to find the right thing to say. But he finally said firmly, "I care about you, Alan, and all I have ever wanted is for you to be happy. And staying here is not what will make you happy."

"C-Could I really just...go...?" Alan asked shakily.

"We can go t'night," Eric said firmly. "'Deus can take y'back t'get yer stuff, an' we could be gone by mornin'. Th' Duke wouldn' know what t'do."

Asmodeus kissed Alan on the forehead. "Eric's right," he said quietly. "If you're going, you should go as soon as possible. You know Grell would stall the Duke while she tries to figure out what happened, and I can stall Grell."

Alan hesitated for a moment longer, then nodded hesitantly. "All right. I'll... I'll go. If I'm with Eric... I'll be okay." Another moment, and then he lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around his friend and protector. "I'm sorry... I don't want to go, but..."

"Don't apologize," Asmodeus said, hugging him back just as tightly. "This is what's best." He pressed his face to Alan's hair, knowing that this was their last option. Alan would be safe. That was all that mattered.

They moved quickly after that. Asmodeus took Alan back to the Moulin to pack what he could, and Eric, meanwhile, packed up his few possessions and waited for them to come back, watching the red windmill out of his window. Only a few streets over, outside of Montmartre, they would hopefully be able to get a ride to the nearest train station. And then...the whole world waited. The Duke couldn't stop them now.

* * *

That close to midnight, there were few people roaming the halls. Employees were with clients, in their rooms resting, or in the back halls drinking. So it was quick work for Alan and Asmodeus to come back in a side door and slip upstairs to Alan's room with no one seeing them. Asmodeus disappeared for a few minutes to find a large bag for clothes, while Alan began to gather valuables into a smaller drawstring bag. Gifts from previous clients were taken, not for sentimental value, but for monetary value, along with any loose money he had stashed around his room. He had earned enough money that it could make this move easier, but that money was tied up into the Moulin's accounts, and he couldn't get at it without going through Grell, and he couldn't do that tonight. One day, he might be able to write to Grell and obtain what was left of his money, but for now, he had to take what he could.

There were a few things he did pack that he couldn't bear to leave behind. The amethyst earrings Asmodeus had given him for Christmas one year. His book about the language of flowers. The small collection of foreign coins he'd accumulated from clients over the years. But when the bag he had was full, that was it.

When Asmodeus returned with a suitcase at last, there was little time to pack things neatly. Alan pulled out all of his practical clothes, tossing them into the suitcase without worrying about whether they stayed folded. He grabbed any sensible shoes he had, and then after a moment, tucked his ice-blue shoes and one of his favorite performance outfits into the suitcase as well.

"Is that it?" Asmodeus asked urgently, shutting the case and leaning on it to make it close all the way.

"I...think so." Alan sat down to pull on shoes meant for walking around the city. "If you find anything I've forgotten, you'll look after it for me, right?"

"Of course."

There was a noise at the door, and Asmodeus whipped around, hand automatically straying towards his knife as if expecting the Duke or Lawrence to burst in. Instead, it was Grell who opened the door and leaned on the doorframe, looking at her two best courtesans with a coolly raised eyebrow.

"Alan, darling," and despite the term of endearment, both of them knew they were busted. "May I ask why you are here, and not in the throes of passion in the Gothic Tower?" Grell tapped her foot lazily, but her eyes were sharp as they focused on him. "And Asmodeus, I _believe_ I told you that you were not to be anywhere near the tower tonight."

"I wasn't, I just met Alan back here when he got back..." Asmodeus attempted, but Grell scowled.

"There is no point in lying to me. I've spoken to the Duke." She glared at them both, plainly furious. "What have you done?! You've rejected and attacked the man holding the deeds to my theatre! You could ruin _everything_ that we've been working for! How _dare_ you?!"

Alan flinched, getting to his feet now that his shoes were on. "The Duke attacked me first! He was getting violent!"

Grell gestured flippantly. "If you hadn't rejected him, that wouldn't have happened." Ignoring both of their cries of outrage, she continued, "And that has no bearing on the fact that your antics have put _this entire establishment_ at risk! This is your _home!_ How could you do this when something this important, when _everything_ , is at stake?!"

"Because I don't have to put up with this anymore!" Alan shouted. "I've never liked the Duke! From the first night! It has _always_ been Eric! And do you know what? That's _your fault_ , for sending him up to me and not bothering to make sure that I knew what was going on!" He stared directly into Grell's face and cried, "Things ended up this way because of _you_ , and now I'm leaving!"

Grell snarled. "I took you in, Alan Humphries. You would have starved on the streets of Montmartre without me! And this is how you repay me? By ruining the Moulin's and my reputation? By ensuring that we lose the Moulin to the Duke?" She met Alan's glare with one of her own, but he simply turned around to finish throwing a few last things into a small bag. In any other situation, Grell would have admired his determination. She liked a good love story as much as any lady, and in any other circumstance, she'd be rooting for Eric all the way. But they couldn't afford that. Love was a luxury for other people. She seized a trinket box that hadn't been packed and threw it to the ground, scattering sparkling bits all over the floor and making both courtesans jump. That certainly got their attention! "I'm _sorry_ you feel so abused, but this is _business_ , little 'Star', and you _cannot leave._ "

"Yes, I can!" His voice cracked, but held. "I have someone who loves me, and I can just _go_. I don't have to stay here and hope that one day, the amount that people will pay for me adds up to enough that I can make it on my own! We can make it _together._ " He started picking up his bags, even more determined to ignore her and hoping Asmodeus would help deflect her if he had to.

"Would Eric even want you once he realizes everything about you?" Grell sniped, and Alan stiffened. The Queen of the Moulin frowned a bit behind his back, but kept going anyway. She didn't like hurting Alan, but this was the only way to get him to stay. "You can barely manage an entire dance routine without wheezing. You don't know how to survive out there; at this point all you know is seduction. No one is going to be protective of you, and there's nothing to stop him from abandoning you once he realizes that you're virtually useless. That's if he even lives that long; the Duke plans to have him killed if he sees him again."

Alan still refused to look at her, but said very quietly, "Then we will leave, and the Duke will not be able to find us." Bags in hand, he turned back around at last. "Come on, Asmodeus. Let's go."

Asmodeus, who had been quiet for most of the exchange, followed without question, still a bit stunned at Grell's vehemence. But both courtesans stopped before they could even get to the door as Grell spoke three final words, quietly.

"You're dying, Alan."

"...what?" Alan turned back to look at her, baffled. "I... _What?"_

"Liar!" Asmodeus accused. "Why would you even say that? I know you don't want him to leave, but that's too far, Grell!"

Grell frowned. "I have to know the health of all of my employees. Undertaker has been keeping me updated. You are dying, Alan, whether you would like to believe it or not."

For a moment, Alan stood stock-still, thoughts racing. Grell could be lying. They could still go. He could walk out of here and not look back. But if she was telling the truth, that...that wouldn't be fair to Eric. They were risking their lives, if what Grell said was true and the Duke would hunt them. He couldn't have Eric run away with and risk being killed for someone who was already going to die.

That, it seemed, was the final straw. Alan's bags hit the floor with a thump, and he stood there numbly for a minute before saying quietly, "What...am I supposed to do, then?" Everything he had wanted, an entire future that he thought he had in front of him, gone in three words.

"Go to Eric. Make sure that he doesn't come back here, so that he will survive. It's for the best," Grell said, sober now as opposed to screaming at them. "Hurt him so that the Duke can't."

"But I..."

" _Alan._ It's all you can do."

Alan stared at Grell for another moment before nodding, looking down at the floor, his expression empty. Grell sighed, brushing past them and heading back out and down the hall. As soon as she was gone, Alan wobbled, sinking to the floor as all of the pain welled up. He clung to Asmodeus, tears spilling over, and gasped raggedly, muffling broken sobs against his friend's shoulder.

"Alan," Asmodeus said frantically, "you can't do this. Eric loves you, and you'd find a way to get through this..."

"No, we won't!" Alan sobbed. "There's no Goddess to step in and make everything right! The only way that one of us makes it out of this is for me to give him up!" He began to cough, too worked up to keep breathing normally, and Asmodeus squeezed him, encouraging him to breathe as steadily as he could.

He couldn't believe what Grell had told them. He refused to believe that Alan was dying. But...it wasn't his place to do anything. He could try to convince Alan that going with Eric was still his best option, but for now, his only focus could be taking care of his friend.

* * *

Eric was up all night, packed bags sitting at the end of the sofa just as he sat in the window. But by the time the sun came up, he had dozed off leaning against the glass. He was roused at around eight in the morning by a knock on the door, and he nearly fell out of the window seat in his attempt to scramble up. For a moment, he blinked in confusion at the sunlight streaming through his window, panicked by how much time had passed, but then he got himself together and went to answer the door, already running through how he could answer to Grell or the Duke or whoever was on his doorstep.

But when he opened the door, it was Alan who stood in the doorway. Eric was initially relieved to see him, but then realized that Alan had no bags, and looked unhurried and neatly dressed. He stepped back to let the courtesan in, asking hesitantly, "Alan? Are y' all righ'?"

Alan bit his lip, his expression distant. "I'm fine."

"Are y'ready t' leave, then? Where're yer bags?" Eric didn't move to grab his own, finding himself oddly wary.

"I...thought a lot, last night. After Asmodeus and I left," Alan said, slowly and deliberately. He didn't make eye contact. "It is...too great a risk, to just leave. I cannot go."

Eric frowned. Something wasn't right. "I know it's frightenin'. I know it's a risk. But keepin' ya safe is important, an' we can make it, so long as we're t'gether. We can' stay; th' Duke is dangerous!"

"It was a misunderstanding," Alan said quietly. "It won't happen again."

" _Alan._ Do ya know how ridiculous tha' sounds?!" Eric walked right up to him, grasping him by the shoulders and staring right at his face, though Alan still refused to look directly at him. "There's no way that 'Deus agreed t' this. He wants ya t' go, too. Where is he?"

"I told him he didn't need to come. I wanted to speak to you myself. He stands by my decision."

"I don' believe you."

Alan shoved Eric's arms off of him, stepping away to put some distance between them. He finally met Eric's eyes, something hard and unreadable in his gaze. "Whether you believe me or not, it is the truth. I am staying at the Moulin, Eric, and you cannot change my mind."

Eric scowled. "We had a plan, Alan! What th' hell happened after y' went back las' night? Y'were gonna run away with me; somethin' drastic had t' change yer mind."

"It was nothing specific, I just realized everything I was giving up." Alan shrugged. "You should not let me stop you from leaving, though."

"I'm no' leavin' you. I love you!" Eric cried. "Why are y'actin' like this?" He couldn't understand what had caused his lover to suddenly become so distant. Something was clearly wrong, something that Alan wasn't telling him. He walked towards Alan again, but Alan brushed past him, heading for the door.

"I've made my decision." Alan only stopped when Eric grabbed his wrist, but he tried to tug himself free. "Let go, Eric!"

"No' until ya tell me what's wrong!" Eric shouted. "Somethin' happened! Why won' y'tell me?!"

"Because there is nothing to tell!" Alan snarled in return. "Is it really so surprising that I have taken all recent events into account and rethought my situation? How am I going to be better off running away with you? I don't have nearly enough of my money for us to live on for long, and you aren't exactly wealthy enough to support us both!" He ignored Eric's shocked, hurt look, and plowed onwards, "Love can't fix everything, especially when it's only been a means to an end!"

Eric flinched. "Wha--What d'ya mean?"

Alan smiled bitterly. "I am very good at my job. I am a very good actor. But thank you. We've gotten a wonderful show out of all of this. And even if you can't get me out of here, if this show is successful, I'll be out of here soon enough anyway." He coughed, turning away and trying to stifle any further wheezes.

Eric's eyes widened. "Y'were...usin' me, t' make th' show better?" He shook his head. "No. I've known ya for months. Y'wouldn' do tha'." His grip tightened on Alan's wrist. "Why won' ya tell me what's th' matter? Why won' y' let me help you?!"

"There's nothing to tell!"

"I still don' believe you!"

Alan, finally succeeding in jerking himself away, stumbled towards the door, practically doubled over by another cough. "Let... Let it go, Eric!" He looked up, right into Eric's eyes, and said sharply, each word full of venom, "I. Choose. The Duke."

He'd been about to object to being told to let things go, but those last words stopped Eric in his tracks. It was like...with just those words, Alan had set the whole world crumbling around him. Eric had come to Paris hoping to make a life for himself, and for a brief time, he thought he'd succeeded. They could have been happy, but this Duke, this selfish, disgusting man, was ruining everything. If only he didn't exist, Alan wouldn't be like this. Hell, if he didn't exist, they wouldn't even have had to think of leaving if they didn't want to! But now... Eric seemed to slump, any anger in his expression just fading into empty sadness. "Isn't there anything I can do to keep you?" he almost begged.

Alan looked away. There was a moment of silence before he said quietly, "You never had me in the first place." He walked to the door, not looking back."Goodbye, Eric."

Eric didn't go after him. He just stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the door that had swung closed behind the love of his life, who apparently didn't love him. It could be a lie, but why would Alan lie? What reason would he have to...to do this? To shred everything they had in just four words?

A shout of pure rage and sorrow burst from him, and he kicked one of the bags he'd packed. It flew across the room, scattering clothes from where the top had come open. But that wasn't enough. He grabbed one of the chairs, throwing it at the wall across the room and watching it crash to the floor after impact. What was he going to do? Alan was gone. The Duke would probably change the show's ending. All of his reasons for being here were gone.

He stormed to the fridge, yanking out three bottles of beer from a collection Ronald had gotten Ollie to nick from the Moulin for them and heading to his bed. Maybe if he drank enough, he'd wake up in the window again and this would all just be a bad dream.

* * *

Alan managed to make it back to the Moulin and to one of the upper hallways before his facade cracked. His expression crumpled, and the sound that he made was one of utter agony. He leaned against the wall, not even bothering to try to hold back the tears, one hand over his mouth in a halfhearted attempt to muffle any further sobs. It was over. He'd hurt Eric, badly, and now...all he had left was the show and the Moulin. And the Duke. No love, and no future.

Alan stumbled down the hallway, bypassing his own room to practically fall into Asmodeus's. The other courtesan was still awake; neither of them had slept between last night and Alan leaving to speak with Eric, too upset and frightened to even consider sleeping. Asmodeus didn't say anything when Alan entered, just gave him a hug before bundling him into bed. 

It was easy to sink into familiar warmth; he'd sometimes stayed in Asmodeus's room when he didn't want to be alone. But right now it was a poor substitute for Eric's solid presence, and he hiccupped another sob even as Asmodeus settled in beside him and pulled him close.

"I know it's not okay, Alan," Asmodeus said quietly. "But it was the only way." They had gone through every option, every scenario, but everything came back to that terrible truth Grell had smothered them with: that Alan was apparently dying. In the end, Alan had decided that it was too much to risk. If he only had a short time left, he couldn't put Eric in danger. He couldn't be that selfish. Asmodeus had objected, of course. Selfishness was sometimes the only way to take care of yourself, after all. But in the end, the other courtesan had bowed to Alan's decision.

"Nothing's ever going to be okay again," Alan replied, pressing his face into Asmodeus's shoulder.

Asmodeus sighed. "I'm sorry. I know how much you love him." He smoothed Alan's hair absently, lost in thought for a moment, then said, "You need to sleep, Alan. I won't let anyone bother you today. Just..."

"You too..." Alan mumbled, his voice still thick with tears. "You haven't slept either..."

"I'm going to make sure you get to sleep first," Asmodeus told him, kissing the top of his head. "But then I will. I'm not going anywhere. I promise." He squashed an extremely selfish thought that with Eric gone, he might have a chance, and instead just focused on being there for Alan. For the next week, that was all he could do.


	24. In the Spotlight

For the entire week leading up to the opening night of the show, Eric was practically catatonic. He vacillated between drinking heavily, and being sober but refusing to get out of bed despite numerous attempts by the others to convince him. It was that second state that Ronald found him in several hours before the opening when he barged into Eric's apartment for one final attempt at getting him out of bed.

After learning what had happened, Ronald was surprised Eric hadn't just up and left a week ago. Maybe he was still holding out some kind of hope that everything was just a bad dream, but a week was a long time to binge drink and break things. Ronald found several broken glasses in different places around the room that hadn't been there two days ago, and also many shredded pages from Eric's notebooks of lyrics and music for the show. Eric himself Ronald found in bed, covers pulled up to his eyes and pretending Ronald wasn't there.

"Eric?"

No response. Ronald huffed.

"Eric, this is ridiculous. Have you even eaten this past week?" He certainly hadn't witnessed the songwriter doing anything other than drinking or laying in bed.

An arm emerged from the blankets, pointing at a small pile of dirty dishes on the counter. Ronald begrudgingly nodded. "Okay... Look, I really think you should come tonight." He decided to just plow ahead to why he was really there. Everything else had already been said multiple times. "I mean, you wrote most of the show. Yeah, I had to redo the ending, but you deserve to see your hard work up on stage."

"Why does it matter?" Eric grumbled, retracting his arm back under the covers again. "Alan doesn' want me there. I'm th' idiot who almos' ruined their chances at havin' a show."

Ronald stared at him. "Eric, like I said three days ago, something had to have happened. Alan wouldn't just drop you like that for no reason. Somebody threatened him or something. The Duke or Miss Grell or that scary guy who works for the Duke..."

"It doesn' matter," Eric repeated, staring morosely at the wall. "I told him if somethin' was wrong, he could tell me. I thought he trusted me, but it seems like he doesn'."

"Eric..." Ronald stared at the floor, at a loss. "I don't know what to tell you, other than that I still think you should come tonight. You love him. It's worth a try." Especially since Ronald was running out of things to try. But he still didn't want to leave things like this, and glanced at Eric with a small frown. "You know, Eric... If he was just making you fall in love with him because that's his job, why didn't he ever ask you to pay him?"

"Doesn' matter. He clearly got what he needed withou' askin' f'r money."

"But Eric, you know he doesn't like it here. Why wouldn't he make you pay him so he can save up more money to leave?"

"He knows 'm poor as shite. Tha's why he picked th' Duke."

"But even a little bit is better than nothing. I've never seen him do _anything_ for a client in the Moulin Rouge without expecting something in return. I really think that means he actually--"

Eric sat up, glaring at the writer furiously. " _It doesn' matter,_ Ron! He made his choice! What am I s'posed t'do? Storm in there an' kidnap him?"

"That would be better than sitting around here drinking yourself stupid!" Ronald yelled back, then clapped a hand over his mouth, startled by what he'd said.

Eric snarled. "Get ou'! Wha' d'ya know abou' any o' this? Go enjoy yer show, an' don' be surprised when yer pretty dancer dumps ya f'r someone richer after all this show business attracts new patrons."

Ronald wilted at that. He and Mei weren't even technically a couple yet, but... He turned away, heading for the door, only stopping long enough to throw over his shoulder, "I'm heading over to the Moulin. I really hope I see you later." Then he was gone. 

The door swung shut behind Ronald with a hollow-sounding click, and Eric didn't move, sitting in bed with the covers a wreck around him. Ronald did have a point, loathe as the songwriter was to admit it. Why hadn't Alan made him pay the fees? Even some of the fees? The courtesan spent all that time with him; surely he wanted _something_ for his efforts. Unless all the work on the show had been payment. 

He _had_ done an awful lot of work on that show. It was his right to go and see how it turned out, even if the ending wasn't the one he'd written. Who cared if Alan didn't want him there? It was _his_ show, not Alan's, even if he was the leading part. He'd written that leading part; Alan would be nothing without his script and his lyrics.

That was right! They should be _grateful_ that he'd shown up when he had. Otherwise they'd have been stuck with the tattered pieces of Ronald's idea, and then the Moulin wouldn't have a show, and the troupe wouldn't have a job. They should _all_ be grateful!

He swung out of bed, looking around the room at the scattered pieces of his life and cursing to himself. There was no time to clean any of that up. Ronald's comment about payment had reignited his curiosity, and now he _did_ want to go back to the Moulin Rouge, if only to grab Alan and force the Star Sapphire to tell him the truth. Their relationship had been too real for him to accept the current state of things, and he wanted, no, _demanded_ to know what had gone wrong. He _deserved_ to know. And with that thought, he set about cleaning himself up, trimming his beard back into some semblance of order and changing out of the dingy shirt and pants he'd been wearing most of the week. He was going to get his answers from Alan. Whatever it took.

* * *

By nightfall, Eric had put himself back together enough to know that he would be able to return to the Moulin Rouge without being turned away at the door for sloppiness. He filled his pockets with cash and the gold chain Alan had gotten him for Christmas and left his apartment, walking to the Moulin almost on autopilot.

The doorman let him in without question, and Eric had to assume that Grell thought he wouldn't come back, and therefore hadn't given explicit orders to keep him out. So it was easy to slip into the building, heading for the newly renovated stage area. Grell had closed down the Moulin for most of the week that he was gone so that the stage could finish being expanded and proper curtains could be hung. The employees had set out the chairs in a proper theatre setup, with a long aisle up the middle. Eric took advantage of the fact that the show had already begun and they weren't expecting anyone else so that he could head for one of the side doors and get into the back areas of the Moulin.

Several employees bustling around did double-takes when they saw him, but no one stopped him. Now it was just a matter of finding Alan before someone actually _did_ stop him. Eric decided to head for the costume area, figuring that Alan would be somewhere between there and the stage. He didn't know what he was going to do when he got there, but Alan had to understand how he felt.

As he rounded a sharp corner, he ran into someone roughly the same size as him, and took a step back in an effort to regain his balance. But when he actually looked at who he'd run into, he went pale. It was Lawrence, the Duke's bodyguard.

"Mr. Slingby," the man said coldly. "I do not believe you are supposed to be here."

"Didn' hear anythin' like tha'," Eric replied. "I still work here, an' it's my show. Get out o' my way." Lawrence was not someone he wanted to mess with right now, especially if the Duke had ordered him to keep Eric away. He _could_ double back and take the other hallway; he could still get to the costume room from there...

Lawrence frowned, hand straying to his side. "I am afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave."

"Yeah, yeah, no problem, le' me jus' go back th' way I came in..." Eric had seen the gun holstered at Lawrence's side, and he _really_ didn't want to get shot today. So he turned and walked away, very slowly, and the second he reached the hallway that crossed over to the other corridor, he bolted, ignoring Lawrence's shout of "Hey!" behind him. The thud of pursuing footsteps followed him down the hall, and Eric changed his mind about going straight to the costume room, instead weaving up and down several halls, dodging around other employees and ducking through random doors in a desperate attempt to lose Lawrence.

Eventually, the footsteps faded from behind him, and he slowed to a jog, making his way more directly to the costume room. He kept an eye out for the graying bodyguard, knowing that if they met a second time Lawrence wouldn't hesitate to shoot him, and finally ducked into the room.

Nina, Rosa, and Asmodeus looked up from where they were trying to get the courtesan into his costume for the second act. For a split second, none of them moved, and then Asmodeus cried, "Eric, what are you doing here?"

"I have t' talk t' Alan," Eric said roughly, still winded from his run through the hallways. He looked from one face to the next, resolve unwavering despite the encounter with Lawrence. "I have t' know th' truth."

Asmodeus looked uneasy, but Rosa came over to lay a hand on Eric's shoulder. "Eric, honey, I understand, but now really isn't the best time... In the middle of the show..."

Eric shook her off. "I deserve th' truth, and I deserve th' truth t'night. If I don', Alan's gonna go with th' Duke an' that'll be th' end of things."

"Eric..."

But before Rosa could make another attempt to placate him, Asmodeus, hair spilling out from under his unsecured hat, said sharply, "Why should we let you talk to him? That's only going to hurt him worse."

"Hurt _him?_ D'ya know how badly he hurt _me,_ 'Deus?! An' he claims you let him! Y'wanted him t' leave, but y'didn' stop him from pullin' this shit..." Eric glared at the other courtesan furiously. "How can he possibly be hurtin' worse than this?!"

Asmodeus stormed over, grabbing Eric by the collar. "There is more going on than you realize, Eric, and I am telling you that you being here is bad, and will hurt Alan!"

Nina and Rosa rushed over, Rosa grabbing Eric and Nina grabbing Asmodeus to force them apart. "Mr. Amaryllis, you are going to ruin your costume before you even make it onstage!" Nina cried. "Honestly, are you really going to cause a brawl in my costume studio?"

"Asmodeus," Rosa said, steering Eric towards the table and away from the other man, "perhaps it would be better if he spoke to Alan. Clearly there has been some kind of miscommunication here..."

"Rosa!" Asmodeus objected, but she kept going.

"They deserve a chance to work out their issues. I know how protective of Alan you are, dear, but I think they both need this." Rosa's voice was firm, and even though she still wasn't addressing Eric specifically, the words were for him as well as she added, "So long as he knows when to back off, and so long as he still loves Alan and has his safety in mind, I think this will be fine."

Asmodeus frowned, looking at the floor. He knew Rosa was right; she usually was, but it still didn't make him happy that this was going to cause Alan anguish. "...good luck getting anywhere near the stage without getting stopped."

That was when Nina spoke up, bustling over to the racks of costume pieces against the wall. "Oh, we can fix that! I've got enough pieces here; we can dress him up as an extra or--"

"No," Asmodeus said, cutting her off. "If you're going to dress him up, he needs a clerk outfit." Everyone stared at the courtesan in confusion, and Asmodeus continued, "Well, Alan's probably going to be waiting for his cue for the rewritten balcony scene. If you catch up to him there, there's not going to be a lot of time, and if the scene opens while you're still there, you might as well go onstage if you know all the words. Maybe you really can fix this mess, if you're persistent enough."

"'Deus... Are y'sure?" Eric asked.

"Yes. If you're going to do this, do it." Asmodeus smiled sadly, coming over to take the clerk's hat off of his head and put it on Eric's. "Find out what's wrong, and get your answer."

Eric nodded, dragging the courtesan into a hug. "Thank ya, 'Deus... I jus' want him t' tell me th' truth. Tha's all."

Asmodeus sighed, pressing his face to Eric's shoulder. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Both Rosa and Nina watched them silently. They knew very well how much Eric loved Alan, and they also knew very well how much Asmodeus loved Alan as well, so they understood how difficult all of this had to be for both of them. Nina finally clapped her hands, beckoning Eric over. "Well, then, let's get you dressed, Mr. Slingby! We don't have a lot of time!" 

He wasn't her usual preference for costuming, but in this situation...she would do it gladly.

* * *

It took a matter of minutes, and the whirlwind that was the Moulin's Mad Tailor dressed Eric up in a mock-up of the clerk's costume and shoved him out the door in the direction of the stage hallway. Asmodeus trailed after a few minutes later, and Rosa and Nina were left to wonder if they had done the right thing.

But when Lawrence burst into the costume room just minutes after Eric departed, making no effort to hide his gun, they both were immediately positive that sending Eric off was the best plan.

"Have either of you seen Eric Slingby?" he said, slightly out of breath. He'd plainly been chasing the songwriter all over the Moulin Rouge.

Nina shrugged. "He was in here a few minutes ago. He was looking for Asmodeus. We told him that he really can't interrupt the second act of the show."

"He ran off again afterwards," Rosa said. "We're not sure where he went. May I ask why you're looking for him?"

Lawrence scowled. "The Duke does not want him here, and if he will not leave, I am authorized to use force."

Again, both women surreptitiously glanced at the gun, and Rosa smiled in what she hoped was a placating way. "Surely the songwriter should be allowed to come to his own show."

"I simply follow the Duke's orders. And right now, I need to find Mr. Slingby." Lawrence turned on his heel, leaving the room as quickly as he'd entered.

Nina cringed. "Hopefully Eric gets to Alan before Lawrence catches up. I wouldn't want to be Eric if that guy gets hold of him."

* * *

"You look perfect, my Lord."

Ciel swatted at Sebastian as the taller man adjusted his crown for the fifth time. "If I look perfect, stop fussing. Focus on not falling off of those boots"

Sebastian looked down at the thigh-high black leather stilettos, wondering what had possessed him to agree to this. At least they were breathable, just like the leather bodysuit and gloves. He tapped across the floor, doing his absolute best not to wobble on the uneven spots in the back hallways as they made their way towards their places for the confrontation after the balcony scene. It was actually a bit disappointing, as the demon had a much smaller part now that the angel agreed to stay with the prince, but he still got a dramatic entrance.

"Sebastian," Ciel said sharply as they neared backstage, "is that or is that not Eric Slingby dressed like a vagabond and heading for backstage?"

The music-master-turned-demon shifted to look, and blinked in confusion. "He's got on parts of the clerk's costume. ...He's not trying to get to Mr. Humphries, is he? The Duke will be extremely displeased."

Ciel made a displeased noise. "We spoke of this. He is jeopardizing our position here. We have to stop him, Sebastian. We can't risk Grell getting rid of us now." As he spoke, Eric turned to look at them, as if realizing they were talking about him, and his eyes widened. Ciel scowled. "Eric!" he shouted. "Stop!"

Panic crossed the songwriter's face, and he looked around frantically for a moment before taking off in the direction of the stage. Despite stiletto heels and dragging capes, Sebastian and Ciel gave chase, trying to catch up before Eric got the chance to ruin them all.

* * *

He'd thought he'd been okay, since he hadn't run into Lawrence yet, but as Eric dashed down yet another hallway with the little prince and the demon in pursuit, he couldn't help but wonder if this plan could go any more wrong than it already had.

As long as he actually made it to backstage, as long as he could get to Alan without getting thrown out, that was all that mattered. He ducked around the stagehands carrying props from the ballroom scene, just barely missing upending a platter of fake hors d'oeuvres.

"Eric?" someone called behind him, but he ignored them, plowing onwards. A startled Ronald, not sure why he was being ignored, blinked in bafflement. "Eric?!"

Yes, Ronald had wanted the songwriter to come to the show, but somehow he had a feeling that sprinting around backstage in a facsimile of the clerk's costume wasn't the best idea. He started to go after the other man, but was distracted as he spotted Lawrence over by one of the doors that led to the main hall. He seemed to be talking to someone on the other side, and as Ronald crept closer, he realized that the voice beyond the door belonged to Duke William.

"Slingby is here," Lawrence was saying, a frown on his face. "I spoke to him briefly, but he slipped away."

Duke William, from what Ronald could tell, was extremely displeased by that news. "You have your orders. Sutcliffe and Alan both were aware of what might happen. If you find Slingby, kill him."

Ronald's eyes widened. That was the missing piece! The Duke was going to have Eric murdered; of course Alan wouldn't want that to happen! If it meant Eric survived, Alan would drive him away to protect him. Ronald glanced around frantically, but Eric had vanished, and Ronald cursed, taking off in the general direction of the stage.

Eric, meanwhile, had finally reached backstage, spotting Alan in his angel costume getting ready to climb up to the balcony set. He didn't slow down, racing across behind the sets and catching Alan's arm. "Alan, wait!"

"Eric?!" Alan cried, his eyes widening as he whirled to stare at the songwriter. "What are you doing here?"

"I have t'know!" Eric replied, grasping Alan by the shoulders. "Yer hiding somethin'! Somethin's wrong, an' I wanna know what it is!"

Alan couldn't keep the frightened expression from his face, eyes darting around as if the Duke or someone was going to materialize out of the shadows to kill the blond man. "Eric, I told you, I picked the Duke! Leave!"

Eric growled with frustration at the lack of an answer once again. "If yer so committed t' th' Duke, then let me pay ya!" He pulled out a crumpled handful of money from his pocket, along with the gold chain from Christmas, and shoved them into Alan's hands. "Take it! If it wasn' real, let me pay ya like everyone else!"

The courtesan shoved the money and chain back into Eric's hands as if they'd burned him, turning away to climb the ladder to the balcony. He could feel himself getting slightly short of breath, and he was desperate to make Eric leave. "Eric, no, I can't..."

"Tell me ya don' love me!" Eric demanded. "If y'really picked th' Duke, tell me tha' I don' mean anythin' t'you. Say it!"

"That's not...!"

On either side of the stage, pursuers were getting closer. Sebastian and Ciel arrived at stage right, and though Ciel made to head straight for the arguing couple, Sebastian held him back, saying shortly, "It's too late. We must take our places and hope that Mr. Slingby's actions don't bring the show down."

Ciel scowled, but ducked into the space beneath the balcony set, to wait for his cue to burst out of the doors. Meanwhile, from stage left, Lawrence was approaching the pair with his gun drawn, aiming at Eric. Alan spotted him over the songwriter's shoulder, and jerked away for a final time, starting up the ladder. "Eric, _leave!_ Nothing you say will change anything!"

Lawrence slowed to a stop as Eric seemed to sag, the money and necklace loose in his hand. He wasn't going to shoot Eric if he didn't have to. But before the songwriter could leave the stage, and before Lawrence could get to him, the curtain parted as Act 2 commenced. Lawrence managed to dodge offstage, but Eric was left standing dead center, and the whole theatre went silent.


	25. The Last Curtain

Eric stood there for a moment in the silence, spotlights blinding as they were all turned to focus on him. The stage crew was doing what they were supposed to, regardless of whether or not the right actor was onstage. Eric took a deep breath, knowing that all he could do at this point was improv his way out of this, and walked over to take his place near the base of the balcony set.

A spotlight swung up to illuminate Alan as he came onto the balcony, and the angel looked only mildly surprised to see Eric there instead of Asmodeus. But Eric was good at improvising, so Alan just began the script where he was supposed to, saying with a frown, "Why did you come?"

"Because I though' we had somethin'. Because I though' y'loved me." Eric looked up, meeting his gaze. The script was going to work to his advantage in this case.

"The prince has offered me everything." Alan stepped up onto the lip of the balcony, and backstage, Ollie worked the flight harness controls perfectly so that when the angel stepped off, he floated elegantly to the stage. "I do not have to die, and neither do you." Which was close enough to the truth, except for that one, impassible detail. Alan stopped a few steps away from Eric, half-turned to face the audience. "This is better."

Eric frowned. "No. It's no'. But y'won' see that." He looked over as Ciel and Sebastian emerged from stage right, the prince and the demon perfectly framed as the lights dimmed. "Y'win, your Highness. I'll go."

Neither of them responded. Ciel couldn't bring himself to speak his line even though it was his cue. This was too intense, too...personal, even in the midst of the performance. Eric laughed mirthlessly, tossing the money and necklace at Alan's feet and turning to the audience. He looked right at the Duke, sitting in the front row, and finished, "Nothin' I say will change anythin'. He's yours now." To anyone else, it would just be part of the script, but he knew William would understand.

Alan stood there, torn, with money and gold at his feet, unable to do anything but watch as Eric took the steps down from the stage and walked away up the center aisle. The Duke and half the audience turned to watch him go as well, and even Ciel and Sebastian looked concerned. Alan could feel himself going numb, every feeling just draining from him the farther Eric got from him.

Ciel, uncertain if it would help but knowing he had to say something to keep the show going, spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "You didn't want a simple clerk. He couldn't have made you happy! Stay here, in the palace. This is for the best."

Was it? Alan didn't know. All he knew was that Eric had looked utterly broken, in that instant before he turned away. He'd known it was going to hurt him, but not _that_ much. It was supposed to hurt less than if they had run away together and Alan had died. And some part of him still considered himself just a courtesan, just another flavor of the night. Deep down he still wondered how someone like Eric could actually love him, and subconsciously he'd projected that onto Eric, when Eric didn't think that at all. But now it was too late.

Ronald, who had finally made his way to backstage, could just barely see the crushed expression on Alan's face and he could tell what had happened. He had to do something, but what? What could save this but not completely ruin the play? He had a brief memory of the songwriter's notebooks scattered all over the flat, and realized what he could do. The aria had been cut in the Duke's ending, but if anything was going to snap Alan out of it, that would. He just had to pick the right line, and change it to fit the situation...

He took a deep breath, then darted forward, shoved a still-hovering Lawrence to one side, and mustered up the best his mediocre singing voice could do.

_"And you still know what he told you: not to give yourself to fear. He's died every night, since you left his side..."_

Out onstage, Alan froze, hearing the line from the aria and inadvertently continuing, near silently, _"I wish you were here..."_ He stared at Eric's retreating back, and something snapped. It wasn't worth it. Eric being this miserable wasn't worth it. From this reaction, he definitely was as unhappy as Alan. And watching him walk away, Alan knew he couldn't give him up. Any misery was worth it if they were together; they could run and make Alan's final days worth every struggling breath. The courtesan glanced at Rudgar, just offstage, who nodded and put his fingers to the piano keys. He'd heard Ronald's faint singing and knew what Alan was thinking. The first bars of the aria filled the theatre, and Alan opened his mouth and sang.

_"Oh beloved, far away now, will I see your smile again?  
I wish you could see I wanted to be your light until the end..."_

He saw Eric's steps falter, and the songwriter stopped in the middle of the aisle, though he didn't turn around. Alan took another breath, paying no mind to Ciel and Sebastian's stunned, uncertain expressions. Fighting back a cough, he launched into the second verse.

_"Though I still know what you told me: not to give myself to fear...  
I've died every night, since I left your side... I wish you were here..."_

When he stopped, the music kept going, and Alan held his breath, hoping that Eric would hit the cue.

The blond man stood perfectly still, oblivious to the many audience members turning to stare at him as he listened. But as the music entered the third verse, he sang quietly, _"I'm the darkness, you're the starlight..."_ He got louder as he continued to sing, turning around and starting back up the aisle. _"...shining brightly from afar. Through hours of despair, I offer this prayer to you, my evening star..."_

There were tears welling up in Alan's eyes, and he met Eric as the blond came back up the steps to the stage. There was a musical bridge before the final verses, and all the lights were supposed to go blue so that the angel could contemplate whether or not he was glad to see the clerk. Alan wasn't expecting that to happen, since no one was prepared and he wasn't even still up on the balcony set, but the lights went blue anyway as he and Eric came together and he caught a glimpse of Ollie, Rudgar, and a few of the other stagehands giving him thumbs-up from the wings over Eric's shoulder.

"I didn't mean any of it," Alan whispered. "I didn't. I love you, god, I love you, I'm so sorry... I was trying to protect you..." He swallowed hard, forcing himself not to cry, but his grip on Eric was too tight.

Eric smiled weakly. "I knew it... I knew there was somethin' wrong," he whispered back. "But what is it? What are ya tryin' t' protect me from?"

They spun across the stage, a little clumsily since they were just filling the bridge with a makeshift waltz in the absence of proper staging, but it was perfect regardless. Alan didn't get a chance to answer, as the music swelled up as the orchestra joined in, and both had to take deep breaths to sing the next part. When the interlude ended, they were hand in hand facing each other, and the audience held its breath as they began the final two verses. They were singing more to each other than anyone, and everyone could tell.

_"I am thankful, my beloved, for your tenderness and grace._  
I see in your eyes, so gentle and wise, all doubts and fears erased.  
Though the hours take no notice of what fate might have in store,  
Our love, come what may, will ne'er age a day;  
I'll wait forever more!" 

Alan choked up on 'come what may', but Eric's singing carried him through the rest, and when the song was over he clung to the songwriter, burying his face in Eric's shoulder. Eric had come back. Eric had forgiven him. Eric loved him. It was more than he could have hoped for. Even if this was it...it was worth it.

The Duke was watching from the audience in disgust. Ronald and Lawrence had stopped scuffling in the opposite side of the wings and were just staring as everything played out. But Lawrence caught the Duke's eye and pulled his gun, shoving Ronald aside and heading for the stage. Ronald's eyes widened, and he knew he couldn't actually stop the much-larger man. So he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed as loud as he could, _"They're trying to kill you!"_

There were a few laughs from the audience, but Alan's eyes went wide onstage. No! Not after all of this! He turned in the direction of the voice, seeing Lawrence forcing his way onstage and brandishing a gun. He yanked Eric back, and heard Sebastian cursing somewhere behind them. The orchestra kept on playing, too freaked out to do anything but do as they had rehearsed, while the audience watched in rapt fascination as if the entire thing was part of the show.

Ronald tried to grab Lawrence before he could get completely out of the wings, clawing at his gun arm. He managed to knock the gun to the floor, but the larger man landed a solid hit to the side of his head and sent him flying. Ronald landed hard and didn't get back up, though several of the stage hands hurried over to make sure he was all right. 

As the gunman moved onto the stage, eyes on the weapon that had skittered across the wooden floor to rest near the back curtain, Ciel glanced at the audience before drawing his prop sword and calling for their benefit, "It might look like a man, but it's just a mindless minion!"

"Controlled by a monster!" Eric chimed in, not even bothering to look at the Duke. He already knew that William, from his spot in the front row, was looking more enraged by the second.

Thinking quickly, Alan signed to the conductor, who nodded and took the orchestra into the final number of the original play, the ensemble finale. The more people there were onstage, the less of a chance Lawrence would be able to get to the gun before one of them. The other performers who had been waiting in the wings spilled onto the stage, beginning the last song without any further prompting even though the last scene and Grell's dramatic entrance hadn't occurred. Everyone was still trying to make things look as much part of the show as possible, so both Sebastian and Lawrence ended up dancing awkwardly through the singing throngs, trying to get to the gun first.

Eric kept hold of Alan's hand, both of them right in the middle of the stage as they led everyone in the last song. There was a screech from one of the dancers near the back, and their singing faltered as they saw Lawrence hold up the gun triumphantly. But Asmodeus and Grell burst from the back curtains, Grell just exploding forward in a dramatic flurry of sequins and color, and Asmodeus punching Lawrence straight in the jaw. The man collapsed to the stage, out like a light, and in the audience the Duke finally got up in disgust and started up the aisle to leave. 

Everything had gone wrong. But William turned back as he heard a clatter; someone had kicked the gun hard enough to send it spinning offstage and halfway up the aisle, and Duke William, blinded by rage, snatched it up. This was their fault, that _courtesan and his bloody songwriter,_ and he would see them pay for humiliating him. He practically charged up the aisle, gun raised to point right at Eric and Alan, but he tripped just as he passed the second row, before he could fire.

Above his head, Vicomte Thomas Battenhall and Baron Oliver Morrison, seated on either side of the aisle, exchanged smirks and pulled their legs back in. William scrambled back to his feet, snarling, "Alan Humphries--!" But when he finally got up, he found himself face-to-face with Grell, resplendent in her role as the Goddess of Death and wearing a scowl that could kill.

"I'll be taking back the deeds to my theatre~" she purred, and then slammed her fist into his face and knocked him out cold.

The song came to an end, the angel and the clerk standing triumphantly in the middle of a crowd of their friends, together and alive, and the audience jumped to its feet. It had been a performance like nothing they had ever seen, and there was really no way to describe it other than 'spectacular'. The performers took their bows, and Alan clung to Eric's arm, panting from the effort but with a wide smile on his face. They had done it, really done it. A successful show, the Duke unconscious, and Eric, Eric at his side, solid and real and everything Alan had wanted for the past week. It almost made up for the fact that he felt like he couldn't catch his breath.

The curtain came down in a wall of red, and Alan tried to look up and say something to Eric, but his chest seized and he dropped to his knees, vision going fuzzy. He couldn't breathe, and he coughed almost reflexively, ragged-sounding and harsh as his lungs struggled to get air. The last thing he heard before the world fuzzed out completely was Eric's voice, sounding completely terrified.

_"ALAN!"_

* * *

Eric caught his coughing, weakened lover in his arms, dropping to his knees in a panic with Alan cradled in his lap. He'd never seen Alan have an attack this bad before. It was gut-wrenching to listen to the sound of Alan gasping for breath. The courtesan's eyes glazed and then slipped closed as he struggled to breathe, and Eric shook him, his own eyes wide.

"Alan, Alan!" It was practically a scream.

Asmodeus crashed to the floor beside him, looking equally as panicked. "It hasn't been this bad in a while... Undertaker!" He looked around frantically. _"Undertaker!"_ The other performers had crowded around, and he couldn't see if the silver-haired doctor was nearby or not. But they needed the medicine; it was the only thing that could help Alan. "Grell, we need space!"

Grell reacted immediately, turning and shoving people back. "Move, you idiots! Give him room to breathe!" She outright body-checked a dancer just standing there staring, her eyes blazing. After everything that had happened, she didn't want her little darling to die. "Undertaker, get out here right this second or you're fired!"

The doctor appeared from the crowd, brandishing the large perfume bottle of medicine. He nodded approvingly at the fact that Alan was semi-upright in Eric's lap, but his mouth was still twisted with concern. "You know the medicine 'as to get into 'is lungs, right?" he said, kneeling alongside them. "If 'e's not breathing..."

"We have t' try!" Eric cried. "Please!"

Undertaker obligingly sprayed the fine mist into Alan's mouth, but his breaths were too shallow to take the medicine into his lungs. The watching crowd let out a despairing-sounding mumble, and Eric shook Alan gently. "Please, Alan, y've gotta breathe... Please... Don' leave me when I jus' got ya back..."

"Eric, Eric," Asmodeus said urgently, shoving against his shoulder. "Can you force the medicine into his lungs? Breathe for him?"

"It's worth a try..." Eric glanced at Undertaker, who nodded, and then took a deep breath and leaned down, trapping the small tube of the perfume bottle between their mouths. When he breathed out, Undertaker sprayed another puff of the mist, and everybody crossed their fingers that it would make it to Alan's lungs. They waited a moment, and when there was no response, repeated the action. Asmodeus just kept hold of Alan's hand, fingertips on his pulse as he watched.

The courtesan stirred a bit as he at last got a slightly deeper breath, hazy eyes opening to focus on Eric. "...Eric...?"

"Don' talk, don' talk, jus' breathe," Eric urged. He wrapped his arms more solidly around Alan. "More medicine. C'mon, Alan..."

Alan coughed when he tried to speak again, but took another puff of medicine and said weakly, "Eric...? 'm sorry..."

"Don' apologize, it's okay, hush..." Eric crooned, trying not to sound as frightened as he felt.

"C-Can we go...?" Alan whispered hoarsely, breathing deeper but still shaky. "C-Can we find a house...with a garden...?"

"We can have whatever y'want, Alan. We can go anywhere. Jus' hold on..." Eric pressed kisses to his forehead, cheeks, hair. Undertaker gave him another puff, and Asmodeus squeezed his hand. Alan couldn't help but smile, wavery and fragile.

"I just want you..." He reached up, slowly, and pressed his hand to Eric's cheek. "But I have to tell you something..."

Eric caught his hand and held it there. "What is it? Y'can tell me anythin'."

Alan cringed, not wanting to spoil Eric's happiness but knowing he had to tell this secret. "I'm...dying..."

"Wha'?!"

"Yes..." The courtesan sat up a bit as he slowly got his breath back, looking fearful, as if worried that after everything, this last revelation would be too much for Eric. "Grell said that Undertaker had told her..." He was looking at the silver-haired man, but Undertaker was looking at Grell, covering his mouth as he giggled.

Eric, too, stared at Grell in shock. "What?"

"About that..." Grell shifted foot-to-foot, and it looked incredibly odd in the flashy, elegant costume. "You see, Alan, I was very concerned that you would leave... And that would put you and Eric in danger... So I might have told just a _tiny_ lie to try to keep you safe..."

_"Grell!"_ Asmodeus shouted. "How _could_ you?" His infuriated outburst mirrored exactly what Eric was thinking, though the songwriter held himself back in favor of keeping Alan steady.

Alan, meanwhile, looked betrayed. "I hurt Eric because I thought it would be easier to recover from than having to watch me die!" His voice was still weak, but the outrage was plain. "How could you lie to me like that?!"

"I thought it was for the best!"

"Well it wasn't!" He tried to get to his feet, but slumped back against Eric. "You certainly can't stop me from leaving now!"

Grell looked away. "I wouldn't. I was wrong. You've been through too much...You need to go and be happy." She actually looked ashamed of herself, which startled Alan. Shame and Grell weren't a typical combination. But he was still angry, and he was in no way ready to forgive her. He refused to _look_ at her, instead focusing on Eric.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't know she..."

Eric hushed him. "It's okay. Shhhh. Don' worry abou' Grell. We'll deal wi' Grell. Jus' rest." He gathered Alan up, getting to his feet with the smaller man cradled against his shoulder, and glanced at Asmodeus. "I'm gonna go put him t' bed. Do y'wanna handle Grell f'r us?" He was angry, yes, and under normal circumstances he'd be more than happy to shout at the queen of the Moulin until the ceiling fell down. But after the past hour, he just couldn't, so having Asmodeus do it instead seemed like the next best thing.

Asmodeus grinned at him, though his eyes were dark with anger. "Sure. Go on, make sure he's okay."

"Thanks, 'Deus." Eric took that as his cue to leave, the crowd parting as he approached to let them through. He caught bits and pieces of Asmodeus yelling as the other courtesan laid into Grell, apparently done with holding back after the insane week they'd all had.

_"...could have gotten us all killed! Why didn't you just..."_

_"...cared about him, you would have..."_

_"...should have just TALKED TO US instead of...!"_

As they got farther away, so did the voices, and finally it was just the two of them, traveling the empty hallways towards Alan's room. The courtesan said nothing, but his fingers curled tightly in Eric's shirt and he pressed as close as he could. But Eric, despite the scare he'd just had, couldn't stop smiling. Everything was going to be okay now. Everything had worked out in the end, and now--

"Eric?" Alan murmured, sounding exhausted. "I love you."

Yes, everything was going to be okay.

"I love ya too, Alan."


	26. Epilogue

"The one you love is...?"

Eric jumped a bit, not expecting the voice behind him, but relaxed as lithe arms wrapped around his shoulders and Alan nudged against his back. "'m tryin' t' figure out how t' start this. But I think I've got it." He turned back to the typewriter, feeling the warmth of the smaller body against him as he finished the line, _'but the one I love is happy here, away from that place. And though, in a way, it saddens me, we will never see the Moulin Rouge again'._ Once the words were down on the page, he turned in the chair to actually face his love. "How are ya? Did ya sleep all righ'...?" But he trailed off once he actually got a good look at Alan. The brunet was clad only in one of the bedsheets, and his hair was still messy and ruffled from the previous night.

"I'm surprisingly good." Alan stifled a giggle at the stunned look on his partner's face and slid into his lap, making himself comfortable. "Someone watered down that absinthe terribly. I don't even have a hangover."

Curling his arms around Alan's waist, Eric nuzzled the brunet's cheek, causing him to laugh at the scratch of Eric's stubble. "Eh, not like we were drinkin' it f'r more'n nostalgia. Regular absinthe's too strong anyway."

Alan nuzzled his face into the taller man's neck, smiling fondly. "We were plenty tipsy. You don't usually leave so many marks."

Eric shifted to peer down at the younger. Sure enough, there was a trail of dark marks from beneath one ear, down his throat, and across his chest, all the way to where they disappeared beneath the sheet. He grinned sheepishly, squeezing Alan a bit. "Sorry. Didn' mean t' be so rough..."

"I liked it." Alan nipped at his jaw lightly. New surroundings or not, he was still the same playful minx he had been in the Moulin Rouge. But now, Eric could be certain that every bit of it was genuine. "You were up early. Was something wrong, Eric?"

"I had a nightmare. Couldn' get back t' sleep after tha', so I went an' picked up some groceries."

Alan sat back to study his expression curiously, cupping his cheeks in both slender hands. "A nightmare? Do you want to talk about it?"

"It was tha' last curtain call," Eric said quietly, his expression melancholic. "I dreamed ya died of tha' last attack. Righ' there in my arms. If everyone hadn' acted so fast...tha' could've been reality..." He kept his arms coiled around Alan's waist, but didn't pull him close yet, still wanting to see his face. Whatever was wrong with Alan's lungs hadn't troubled them since they left France, though Undertaker had sent a large bottle of the concoction with them and promised more if they needed it.

"But it's not," Alan said gently. "I'm here, and everything is fine." He leaned in to press a soft kiss to Eric's lips, then hopped off his lap, trailing the ends of the sheet behind him as he walked over to their kitchen table. "We never opened the mail yesterday..." He flipped through the envelopes curiously. "One from 'Deus, and one from Grell..." It was a foregone conclusion as Alan ripped into the one from his dear friend first. "He says he still misses us... The Moulin is doing well... They're practically a proper theatre now, though Grell's apparently reluctant to give up the extra income from the courtesans..." 

"So they're still no' _quite_ 'proper'," Eric teased. He really couldn't blame Grell, though. For a while, according to Ronald, it had been an uncertain thing whether the Moulin was even going to recover from the entire fiasco with the Duke. Fortunately, despite several reviews lampooning the chaotic closing number, people had loved the absolutely insane show, coming to see the proper version in droves. Grell had even arranged that for the last weekend of the show the performers reenacted the dramatic performance of opening night, complete with a performer sitting in the audience to attempt to storm the stage with a fake gun. And as for the deeds that had been signed over to the Duke, Grell had worked her magic. Whether that meant sex or the possible reappearance of the scenery department's chainsaw, there was no way to tell, and no one wanted to ask.

Alan snorted at Eric's comment, still reading. "Ronald and Mei are apparently contemplating marriage, Claude has at last managed to get Alois to be less clingy, and Sebastian and Ciel are as grumpy and snarky as ever. And 'Deus wants to know if he can come visit for Christmas."

Eric laughed, coming over to read over Alan's shoulder. "'Course he can. He's practically family. Jus' no flirting." He poked his partner teasingly in the shoulder. He'd told Alan a few months ago about Asmodeus's unrequited feelings, and while Alan had been a bit regretful he'd never realized, he knew that Eric was who he was meant to be with.

"Oh, come now," the younger teased. "You would flirt with him, too. You eyed him at least once or twice."

"Tha' was almos' a year ago!"

"And?"

"An' so y'can be quiet." Eric ruffled Alan's hair roughly, grinning, then glanced at the other letter. "What's Grell want?" Neither had spoken to the Moulin's proprietress since they left, getting all their news from Asmodeus and occasionally Ronald. Alan shrugged, picking up the envelope and opening it up to scan the letter.

"...she has my money," he said quietly, after a moment.

Eric blinked. "What d'ya mean?"

The former courtesan waved the letter back and forth. "Do you remember when I told you that I had a lot of money, but it was tied up in the Moulin's accounts and not readily available?" He'd been a courtesan for years, after all, and was the highest-paid for many of them. "Grell has retrieved all of it, 'every franc I owe you' according to her, and is prepared to send it to us in whatever form of currency we may need."

Eric hesitated, but finally asked the obvious question. "...how much is it?"

That made Alan smile. "Possibly enough for a small castle if we ever end up moving to Scotland," he said cheekily, clearly joking. He waited for a moment to see what Eric would say, and was caught off-guard when the bigger man simply picked him up and spun him around. He laughed, clinging onto Eric's neck and the sheet, nuzzling happily.

"This calls f'r a celebration," Eric declared, and it was obvious what he was referring to by where his hand was creeping. Alan wiggled and licked his neck.

"What about your writing?"

"Tha' can wait. Th' story is always gonna be there. It's jus' a matter of writin' it down, an' tha' can happen whenever." Eric nuzzled Alan's hair. "F'r now, we're gonna go be happy, b'cause everythin' is perfect."

It had taken a while, but everything was finally falling into place. Love, safety, and now even money. Not that they were bad off now, but still. As he carried Alan back towards their room, Eric couldn't stop smiling, happier than he'd ever been in his entire life.

After all, there was no greater joy than to love, and be loved in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed this, whether it was new to you or a reread. ^_^ Thanks for reading!


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